


A Lover That Won't Blow My Cover

by Ajayd



Series: A Spider in the Pool [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But it's Deadpool, Dark, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Graphic Description, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Recovery, Relationship Negotiation, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ajayd/pseuds/Ajayd
Summary: Horrifying events leave Peter and Wade traumatized and struggling to lean on each other. The Avengers try to help, but only Peter and Wade can really save themselves.COMPLETE. NOT NECESSARY TO READ EARLIER INSTALLMENTS.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guys are gonna hate me, for the follow unfortunate WARNINGS:  
> 1\. MOST IMPORTANT: THIS FIC IS NOT FOR ALL READERS. I really tortured the fuck out of Peter and Wade. Some really DARK, horrifying stuff happens, with ugly, DISTURBING consequences to the characters. This is your RAPE WARNING, as shit gets real in the very first chapter. Skip the first two chapters if you want to miss the worst parts, but there will be references and flashbacks to the TRAUMA. I attempt to write these events with respect, but descriptions are GRAPHIC in a way typical of my writing.  
> 2\. This fic ends with the story arc, which does not provide the Happy Ending that I generally require of any fic that I read. For that, you will have to read he next installment.  
> 

When they’d been dating for about six months, Wade asked Peter if he wanted to meet his daughter. 

Next to him on the couch, Peter jerked his head to the side with a fallen jaw. “Whaaat? Since when has that even been an option? You said you never see her. That she doesn’t even know you.”

[[We, uh, misspoke.]]

[SURPRISE! We’re lying liars who LIE!]

“Almost never,” Wade replied with a shrug and affected nonchalance, focused on the Buffy rerun. “The odd Christmas or birthday. Halloween has become a bit of a tradition I guess. Thought you might like trick-or-treating with us.”

Peter scowled a little at his performance, and leaned bodily over his boyfriend to retrieve the remote. Wade let it happen, even though Spidey promptly turned off the telly and sat staring at him conspicuously and with expectation. With a quiet sigh, Wade folded his spandex mask into a cap and turned to face Peter for the inevitable heavy conversation that this was about to turn into. 

[CRACK! Spidey’s got us whipped good!]

[[Eye contact during important discussions is not an unreasonable demand, brah.]]

Peter gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, a comforting acknowledgement of Wade’s actions; but the younger man was more focused on the verbal exchange. “Why is now the first I’m hearing of this? You never keep secrets, or so I thought.”

Wade shrugged again, even though he knew that wasn’t a sufficient response. It was hard to verbalize the abundance of thoughts and feelings he had about his daughter when he hardly understood them himself. “She’s. . . precious. I have to protect her, especially from myself. She makes me feel –”

[Lovewonderadorationextacyheartbreakmourningterrordespair! DANGER!]

Wade swallowed and looked down at where his fingers were tightly gripping Peter’s. Peter maintained his quiet attention until he sighed and finished roughly, “Afraid.”

The fear was deep, detailed, and pervasive. Most obviously, he was afraid of unintentionally putting Ellie in danger, or of accidentally hurting her just by being who he was. He also worried about contaminating her, or corrupting her, for surely there was little else that could happen to an impressionable child spending time with the Dreadful Deadpool. And of course, cuz he was inherently self-centered, Wade’s worst fear was of caring too much, of being rejected and wounded by his own inability to parent, and of the awful, unbearable guilt that would consume him if any harm came to Ellie. 

Peter studied him for a moment, as Wade tried not to cringe under the scrutiny, hoping that his lover understood him well enough that he wouldn’t have to explain further. It was a relief when Peter left it at that and pulled him close for a hug. “I’d love to go trick-or-treating with you and your daughter. Terrifying little kids and gorging on junk food: sounds like you in your element.”

“Oh, definitely. It’ll be the best Halloween since you had a snot-nose yourself. Guaranteed,” Wade promised, then wrapped his arms around the sinewy body, grinning and nuzzling his bare face into the crook of Peter’s neck. The tight skin on his cheeks felt inflamed and irritated today, and rubbing it against Peter felt divine. “Mmm. . . Maybe I should go as a horny tomcat. Meee-ow!”

Peter pushed firmly back into Wade’s touch, quipping lightly, “If I’m a sexy Chihuahua, then you can be one of those hairless Sphynx cats.”

[I’d totally hit that.]

Wade had to laugh at that, breaking their embrace. “That sounds kinda hot. Who gets mounted in that scenario? You know how I enjoy triple X nature programs.”

“Don’t be gross,” Peter shot back, amusement clear in his voice. “There’ll be none of that.”

They were silent for a rare, long minute, just enjoying each other’s presence. At least, Wade was trying to; he couldn’t help the creeping fear that had awoken with thoughts of his beloved, distant daughter. His life had steadily improved over the last months, largely because of Peter, but experience had taught him well that happiness was merely the setup for a more dramatic collapse. 

[Shit’s due to go fubar any second now. Deny if you want, but we all know it. We can feel it coming.]

Wade pulled Peter back into his arms, holding on possessively and burrowing as close as he could. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life,” he murmured fearfully into Peter’s collarbone. “If I really am cursed, now’s when it all comes crashing down.”

Peter placed a hand around Wade’s jaw and pulled his face up for a tender, lingering kiss. “You’re not cursed, Wade.”

[[The heavy foreshadowing says it all.]]

[We’re about to get royally fucked. And not in the good way.]

! ^_^ !

Deadpool had lined up a three week contract with Mossad, and so flew to Israel, teetering between reluctance to leave Peter and excitement at the prospect of violence. The local team was intimidated enough to be (moderately) respectful, so Deadpool worked with them to uproot some well armed and well entrenched terrorists. It was a slow, bloody mission, and several times Pool found himself slipping out of videogame mode at inappropriate times. One second he’d be stalking through underground tunnels, racking up kill points like it was nobody’s business; the next moment, he’s bored and wishing he was back home with Peter, then suddenly worried about Peter’s welfare in his absence. His deadly surroundings were just so inexplicably dull compared to the fascinating banalities of his life with Peter. Not since Cable had anyone or anything been able to hold his attention over guns and explosives. 

As had become his habit, Deadpool sent frequent texts to Peter, often at inappropriate times, like in the bathroom or in middle of a shootout; once he even sent a selfie taken with an impaled enemy, still holding the bloody body upright with his katana. That behavior was fairly typical for Pool, though by the end of that first week of absence, he noticed that Peter’s replies came less frequently, and were both less witty than usual and more pissy. He didn’t make too much of it, as Peter’s tendency to bottle up his stress yielded occasional bouts of frustration and irritability. Given that he wasn’t even there to misstep, Pool didn’t really think that Peter was mad at him.

[I can’t wait to get home! Peter will be all wound up and waiting! He’ll let loose and take out his frustration on us! He’ll take us fast and rough, trying to prove who’s boss, but then lose control and cum too quick. That’s when we’ll turn the tables – like, literally tie him to the dining room table – and really show him who he belongs to! We’ll tease his pretty prick until it leaks again, and finger his twitching hole until he’s begging for my cock! Oh, fuck! Spidey, I can’t wait to be home and buried in your glorious ass!]

There wasn’t a lot of down time during the mission, even less of it private, but Pool still managed to jerk off almost every day. Like with the texting, it didn’t always have to happen within an entirely appropriate context. This one time [at band camp], while on morning watch, he even sent Peter a pic of his dick, standing erect as he lay in the sand, the harsh Negev Desert stretching away in the background. He had wrapped some toilet paper around his massive cock, then labeled the picture Lawrence of Arabia. Whitey was pretty sure that instant classic deserved more than the lame LOL that Peter sent back. 

On the last day of his trip, Deadpool went to take a shit and surf his phone, which led him to alarming headlines about Spiderman executing Massacre. A sobering wave concern crashed over him as he recognized immediately that something had gone seriously wrong. Spiderman did not kill, least of all with a gun. So what the fuck had happened in his absence?! He felt completely out of the loop, like he was missing something that he should’ve been aware of beyond this ominous impression that it was Too Late. 

Still on the toilet, Deadpool typed a quick text, ((U ok boo?))

Despite the time difference, Peter responded almost immediately, ((Fine))

That wasn’t very informative, so Pool fished again, ((Just saw headlines. U dirty harry now?)) 

((Sometimes hard choices must be made. Justice was served))

Well, that could be taken a couple of ways, none of them good, and it certainly wasn’t the guilty reaction Wade was expecting. They kept their messages deliberately vague for security reasons, but Peter’s response seemed uncharacteristic, however little Deadpool could actually read into it, and it did nothing to ease the older man’s concern.

((I’ll be home tomorrow, eta 1400. Love u))

After nearly a minute without the expected response, Deadpool put the phone down and finished up in the bathroom, feeling confused, wary, and a little hurt. Had Peter had an epiphany while he was gone, or had Massacre pushed him to the breaking point? Had something happened to change Spiderman’s position on killing? What trouble was waiting for Wade back home? As tempting as it was to just go ballistic and force someone to fly him home A-sap, Deadpool had better control over himself these days. 

[[“Going ballistic” just isn’t the same when you let it happen. :( ]] 

[Oh well. Getting blasted out of Israeli airspace would only delay our return anyway.] 

There was no doubt that the fastest way back was in fact on tomorrow’s scheduled transport, through the approved channels. Pool would just have to be patient, which was at least something he had a lot of practice with, if not actual skill. 

Deadpool got through the next day by allowing his jitters to run wild and by being as obnoxious as possible. On the plane he talked loudly to himself, making everyone else as anxious as he was, while also getting up frequently to pace through the cabin. It didn’t matter that he had just completed a mission with several of the other agents traveling with him, everyone looked and treated him like a bomb about detonate. It was a pretty common reaction to Deadpool generally, but on this day he felt like he just might explode from the rapid swell of manic energy. 

His actual return to NYC was anticlimactic, as Peter wasn’t even home, and Deadpool was forced to retreat to his old, neighboring apartment so relieve his disappointment and frustration. He sat angrily in his Throne of Solitude, rocking it violently back and forth as he hurled throwing knives and stars at the wall, eventually progressing to shooting it outright with his silenced Beretta. Still, Peter had afternoon classes then work, so his absence didn’t become truly concerning until evening approached without even a text. 

Wade had gotten accustomed enough to Peter’s eager attentions to recognize that this was not a typical return, especially considering the length of their separation. Usually Peter would be cutting out of work early to “check him for injuries”, or swinging home for a quicky on his break between classes. Deadpool’s trepidation grew the later it got, and when the sun set he returned to their shared apartment to wait in the dark, the red of his leather suit still visible from the light pollution pouring through the window. All his anxious energy had finally condensed into a powerful spring, coiled dangerously tight and frozen still, waiting with bated breath to trigger. 

Sometime after eight, a key slid loudly into the lock and the front door opened, allowing in one Peter Parker. 

[Spidey!!!] [[Wait for it!]]

He was sexy and cute as ever, even frowning and distracted, turning on the lights and taking longer than it should have to sense the other’s presence. Finally he glanced at the couch – then did an obvious double take. Deadpool struck an exaggerated sexy pose on the couch, and gave a little finger wave. “Hi, Spidey! I’m ho-ome!”

Deadpool couldn’t wait any longer, he sprang off the couch and bounded up to his boyfriend, excited to see that Peter looked healthy, and like himself. Peter’s eyes widened at his energetic approach, and he stumbled back a step before stiffly allowing Deadpool to wrap strong arms around him. “Deadpool. Uh, welcome back.”

Deadpool registered the lack of enthusiasm, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing two handfuls of firm ass, squeezing and parting those cheeks even as Peter twisted violently and forcefully shoved him away. “DOWN!” Peter commanded harshly, with an angry scowl. “There will be NO MORE TOUCHING! Is that clear?!”

“Double-yuh tee eff?!” Deadpool stumbled back as he found his balance, getting pissed even as the confusion and worry flared to life again. Was this part of the larger pattern of uncharacteristic behavior? Or maybe Peter really was mad at him? They usually couldn’t wait to jump each other’s bones, particularly after significant time apart, so perhaps this was this some kind of scene? That idea tantalized, and was certainly more appealing than any alternatives. 

Peter growled, apparently deeply in character, “I don’t like repeating myself. Are. We. Clear. On the touching rules?”

They glared at each other for long seconds, until Deadpool’s thoughts and doubts eroded his resistance and he submitted with bad grace. He nodded reluctantly and forced himself to keep his distance, raising open palms in an appeasing gesture. He tried for meek, even though his tense shoulders and thighs screamed anything but, “Whatever you say, boss.”

Peter glared at him with such an expression of repulsed fascination that Pool couldn’t hold his gaze, dropping his eyes as he froze under the harsh scrutiny. After a long, considering pause, Peter stalked closer and then walked slowly around him to inspect him from every angle, a disgusted curl to his lip. 

[Anyone else think he’s an awfully good actor? This scene is kinda meta for my tastes.]

[[Shut up. This is gonna get ugly.]]

“I suppose you want me to screw you?” Peter sneered in passing, and Pool felt a jolt of arousal and adrenaline flood his body. This was definitely a scene, if not one much to his taste. Maybe Peter was intentionally messing with him, pushing his comfort zones and excising old wounds. Peter had to know that making the disfigured man the object of disgust and shaming would strike close to home, but was clearly arrogant enough to believe that he could make Deadpool enjoy it.

“If you’ll have me,” Pool answered demurely, playing it up as best he could, and confident that he could take anything Peter Fucking Parker wanted to lay on him.

[[This is stupid, brah. We’re doing better, granted, but it’s all still broken glass underneath. Yuh dig?]]

Peter was silent for long enough that Pool just had to glance up. Peter was lurking close, staring at him with a hungry expression, like he was going to devour the masked mercenary; covetous, like he wanted to take all of Deadpool and use him up. Pool felt a flush of pleasure at having such intense attention directed at him; the aura of danger skipped right past Pool’s wary brain and went straight to his appreciative dick. 

“Strip naked,” Peter demanded, eyes narrowed lasciviously and lip quirking up on one side. “Then get on your knees.”

[That’s more like it!]

“Yessir!” Deadpool responded. He peeled off his leather as quickly as possible, feeling less comfortable under Peter’s scrutiny than he had in months, since their early times together. Never before had those warm, generous eyes felt so cold and critical, and Wade cringed a little as he revealed the rough canvas of his skin. He left his hood for last, getting down on his knees before he removed it, face bent down and away from the other’s unforgiving stare.

“Good boy,” Peter praised, voice even but hard, as though addressing a dog. He even patted Wade’s scalp gingerly, as though reluctant to touch. “Now give me your hands.”

Wade didn’t hesitate to reach up to his beloved Peter, only to have Peter react with superhuman reflexes, web shooters peeking out from his blazer sleeves and roping Wade’s wrists together. Arousal and fear fought and fed off each other within Wade, making his dick rock hard as Peter added an extra layer of webbing so that he wouldn’t be able to break with strength alone. When Peter was satisfied with the binding, he let Wade’s hands drop to his lap, then took a hold of Wade’s chin and used it to direct his face up into Peter’s unforgiving inspection. 

“You poor thing. You really are hideous, aren’t you?” Peter mumbled with wonder, apparently to himself, but his words raked blunt paths through Wade’s chest. 

[[Peter! What the fuck are you doing?!]]

He tried to pull away, only for Peter’s grip on his chin to tighten painfully. “Real Freak Show material. It’s hard to believe I’d even give you the time of day. . .”

Peter released his chin then, which Wade immediately tucked into his collarbone, barely needing to act for this “role”. The veil between reality and fantasy was too thin here, and Wade had to clamp down tight on the deep soul-hurt, already bracing for whatever worse was to come. He’d told Peter he could take anything his saner, kinder boyfriend could dish out, and that would always be true. Peter thought he was so clever and subtle, messing with Wade like he did sometimes, but Wade wasn’t exactly new to emotional manipulation. It was both a symbol of his boundless trust and a sick point of pride: he would never safeword, never tap out, never stop Peter. 

“You’re more docile than I was expecting, Deadpool,” Peter mocked openly. “I like it. The only way this is going to happen is my way. Do you think you can handle my way?”

[We can handle anything. We are literally indestructible.]

[[Not this horseshit again.]]

Wade found himself breathing heavily with some heady mixture of stress and arousal, and he answered with difficulty, “You know I can.”

Peter laughed, strange and deep, as he stepped closer, positioning himself before the kneeling Wade. Then he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his semi-hard cock, and challenged. “Get me ready then.”

Wade obeyed promptly, rising higher on his knees and placing his bound hands on Peter’s thighs for balance. He eagerly licked and sucked on the swelling prick, hoping to bridge the distance of the scene, just closing his eyes and taking comfort in Peter’s familiar salty taste and his musky scent. Wade hummed in pleasure as he worked the familiar length down his throat, and if he just had a hand free to touch himself he would be in heaven. He’d missed this, being with Peter, pleasuring him.

The pleasant experience didn’t last long before two strong hands gripped Wade’s skull, just enough warning for Wade to open up for the rough thrust. The onslaught picked up speed rapidly until Peter was fucking his face fast and forcefully, holding Wade’s bald head still as his hips pistoned forward, pushing the hard cock down his throat. Each sharp thrust was punctuated by a grunt of distress, as Wade struggled not to gag around the thick protrusion pushing down this throat. It took every ounce of willpower not to fight the assault, the boxes suspiciously silent. For a minor eternity, Peter used his mouth roughly and inconsiderately, and Pool let him, until he grew lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Pool began to struggle instinctively, and finally Peter released him, pulling his wet cock from Wade’s bruised, gasping lips only to then knock him to the ground with a swift kick just below the ribs. 

[HOLY CUNT! Spidey’s keeping it real! Fight or fuck? FIGHT OR FUCK MOTHERFUCKER?! HOW’D YOU LIKE DEM ORANGES?!?!?!]

Sprawled on the ground, Wade gasped for air and fought nausea for long seconds, mind flooded with hysterical noise and only half aware of Peter jerking off above him. He struggled to his hands and knees, only to gag noisily and spit up a largish glob of acidic saliva, thick with precum; a beat later, Peter was grunting and groaning, then hot cum splashed on Wade’s scalp and naked back. It was sufficiently shocking that Whitey shut up for a second and Wade was able to regain enough equilibrium to wipe his raw, wet lips on his shoulder and look up at Peter. He couldn’t have verbalized what he was expecting, perhaps some kind of regret or sympathy, but what Wade got instead was a flash of surprised vertigo from Peter’s gleeful expression. 

Whitey’s voice started back up again, sounding faint and distant like background music. [♪♬ Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash. You tossed me in the trash, you did. ♪♬]

But of course Peter was enjoying this, why else would he do it? Lots of people got off on hurting others, and Wade was so good at taking it – so durable, and yet so broken. If Peter wanted to see him shatter, well, as Wade had said before, he trusted Peter to make it up to him, or at least take care of him later. So Wade settled back on his knees, weight resting on his heels and head bowed. Naked and scarred and marked up with cum, it was easy to feel worthless and disgusting.

“Well, that was fun,” Peter announced with satisfaction. “Did you enjoy that, Deadpool?”

[Yes!] [[NO.]]

There was no doubt what the answer was supposed to be, even if Wade’s delivery lacked enthusiasm. “Yes.”

“Oh! But did you want to orgasm?” Peter taunted with an audible grin. 

[Now that you mention it. . .]

Wade nodded cautiously, torn between hope and dread. Ol’ Reliable, of course, was still swollen and ready to go, despite the increasing psychological disconnect. Peter barked out the same, jarringly strange laugh, then ordered, “Go present yourself on the desk. I’ll be in when I feel like it.”

[♪♬ Now I know I’m being used; that’s okay, man, cuz I like the abuse. I know he’s playing with me, that’s okay cuz I got no self esteem. ♪♬]

Wade fled to Peter’s room, trying not to hyperventilate. His body insisted Horny!, but his mind kept screaming Danger!, and his goddamn pride wouldn’t let him bow out of a scene that was messing with him maybe more than he could handle. 

[[So we have pride these days? Don’t be fucking ridiculous! Just look at us!]]

Wade had spread his legs wide and bent over on the Ikea desk, weight resting on his elbows and forehead bowed over his bound wrists. His asshole twitched at the exposure, but Wade didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability, and even worse was the feeling of being unwanted, which only grew as minutes ticked by without any sign of Peter. Wade had to challenge himself again and again not to break down, break apart, or, fuck forbid, break scene. 

[Cuz we’re not fucking crazy, god dammit! We’re a fucking sex ninja, and this is gonna have a spectacular ending!]

[[Whitey is delusional, don’t listen to him. We need to stop this before it gets worse. Fight back if we have to.]]

Wade’s whole body jerked at the thought, and raised up a little before dropping back into position; his cock throbbed and oozed. There would be no fighting Peter, Peter got whatever he wanted, no questions asked, and the very temptation was proof that he was being Crazy. The best Wade could do was breathe evenly and try to endure with grace. 

Peter did come for him eventually, and Wade couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder to take him in, still fully dressed and holding an almost empty Jarritos bottle in his hand. He smelled like spicy Mexican delivery and his lips were parted in a predatory grin. “Well, well. I’m beginning to remember why I keep you around, Deadpool. You aren’t much to look at, but you sure are obedient.”

Wade bared his clenched teeth in reaction to the rankling words (obedient?!), but didn’t otherwise move from his exposed position. Peter noisily swallowed the remainder of the orange soda, then banged the glass bottle down on the table with a loud, threatening thud that sent a jolt of anxiety through Wade. 

[It’s just a scene! Smile, dude, we’re about to get drilled like a little boy at a NAMBLA convention!] 

[[That’s sick. You really think we’re gonna enjoy this? We are so fucking stupid. And weak, and ugly, and disgusting. I fucking hate being part of this loser train.]]

Wade whimpered at the spiteful words, unprepared for Yellow to turn on him so quickly. Yellow had mellowed in the last six months, seemingly happy with Peter, but clearly the self-loathing was not hidden deep. Overwhelmed by the boxes’ nattering on top of the stress of the situation, it seemed to Wade that his mind was shuddering apart with conflicting thoughts, feelings, impulses. “Just shut up!”

“What did you say?!” Peter growled with sudden rage, surging closer and shoving Wade – ♪♬ back to reality; oops the goes gravity! ♪♬ – slamming him down, so that his bound wrists shot forward while his chest and face crashed hard onto the desk. Wade grunted and flinched in pain, but he still didn’t struggle when Peter grabbed his hands. Then with a Ppphhhttt!, Peter webbed Wade’s hands to the desk. 

The cheap desk was no match for Wade’s full strength, but the webbing was secure and the position awkward enough to make escape challenging. Wade reflexively tested the restraint, only for Peter to grab his skull and smash his face into the desk again with a resounding crack. Blood immediately poured from Wade’s broken nose, but he didn’t have time to process because Peter was leaning over him, jeans digging into Wade’s bare thighs and ass. His amazing, heroic lover hissed with so much vitriol that spit dripped into Wade’s ear, “I will not tolerate disrespect! Especially not from garbage like you!” 

Peter spat a larger, intentional glob of saliva on Wade’s cheek and he shuddered even as Peter used superhuman strength to grind his face into wood. Skin ripped and blinding agony flared from his broken nose, shocking Wade into struggling against his restraints, but it was too little too late. Peter kept up the painful grip on his face, and the threatening pressure against his ass, until Wade’s desperate bucking and kicking waned, then faded to nothing more the occasional spasms of a beaten body. As was their way, the boxes were silent witnesses to his suffering, suddenly mute when reality turned up to full volume.

Peter finally released his bruising grip of Wade’s skull, then commanded harshly, “There won’t be any more disrespect, will there? . . . Answer me, scum!”

Wade dragged his swollen face to the side, anything to take the painful pressure off his fucked nose, and breathed wetly through the blood. It took him long seconds to respond. “No.”

“Good.” Peter backed up then, and Wade watched him dip into his pocket and fish out a pair of latex gloves. He put them on meticulously and Wade felt a clench of fear even before Peter said the words, “This is going to get messy and I don’t want to catch anything. You still wanna get fucked, you filthy cunt?”

[Um, ah. . . That’s a hard one. Get it?]

[[Nooo, fucktard, it’s not a hard one – neither the question nor our dick. Just say NO!]]

Wade had lost his boner around the time his nose had broken, and the boxes’ little exchange triggered a sudden epiphany: Peter wanted him to say no! Peter was beating and abusing him in order to “teach” him that he can, and sometimes should, say no. The thought was a profound relief, and was followed immediately by the consideration that maybe Peter did need limits, if he was gonna try messing with Wade to this extent. 

Wade still had to swallow around the rock in his throat that found it so hard to admit to an inexplicably humiliating defeat, “No, Petey, I’m done. . . Oxygen.”

Peter barked out his eerie laugh, almost sounding like some stereotypical supervillain, and reached for the lube. “That’s my safeword, Deadpool. You don’t have one. You didn’t want one, so you certainly don’t get one now.”

Wade’s stomach dropped sickeningly. It was the same feeling he’d had when reading about Spiderman murdering Massacre, except so much worse. Something was very Wrong, and Wade had been astronomically stupid and foolish to allow himself to be placed in an extremely compromised position. His eyes widened in horror as he watched Peter pick up the empty Jarritos bottle, then stroke it obscenely with his other hand.

“So you’re just gonna rape us?!” Wade challenged in borderline disbelief, thrashing uselessly against his bindings. He tried to kick out, but Peter had shifted his weight and dug his knee painfully into the thick muscle running up the back of Wade’s thigh; a moment later, a powerful latex covered hand gripped the other thigh, effectively pinning Wade’s hips to the desk. Wade grunted and arched his spine and threw his head back, but to no effect.

Then the mouth of the glass bottle was pressing into Wade’s tightly clenched hole. He whimpered in fear, even as Peter assured, “Oh, poor unlovable Wade, the pathetic pity fuck. You’ve spent six months daring me to find your limits, you can’t call rape now just because I finally grew a pair and found those limits. I am the superior Spiderman, and you’re just a repulsive, nasty slut who’ll let anyone do anything to you. You ASKED for this, you DESERVE this, and don’t you forget it.”

Then the glass shaft was forcing its way into Wade’s body, and the guttural terror made it impossible not to close up against the dangerous invasion. He needed to relax into the penetration, to avoid injury from the insertion of the blunt rim, but also to avoid breaking the neck of the glass bottle. However, those thoughts just stoked his fear, and his muscles clenched reflexively against the intimate agony stabbing into him, forcing him open. 

“Stop! Please, Peter, stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Wade cried out desperately in panic, before cutting off his weakness by biting straight through his lip, so that even more blood flowed over his face and slicked up the table. In the background, a devastated Steven Tyler tried to give voice to his heartbreak.

[♪♬ I was cryyyin’ just get you, now I’m dyyyin’ cuz I let you, do what you dooo to meee! ♪♬]

Then, just like that, he disassociated. His body was bound and bent over a desk, nose broken and a glass Jarritos bottle drilling into his ass, but his mind dimmed these outside stimuli. Without any conscious effort, his mind shifted away from the distant horror and pain of the physical world, to focus instead on his inner kingdom, where thoughts were sharp and clear for once. “A superior Spiderman”? Why did that sound so familiar? Where had he heard it before? A flash of inspiration supplied the answer: according to canon, Dr. Otto Octavius takes over Peter Parker’s body, using his memories to live his life and be the Superior Spiderman.

[[You useless, luckless, braindead waste of space! You’re letting a supervillain fuck us!]]

[Wouldn’t be the first time. . . You think Spidey will count this as cheating?]

Thoughts in tangled a whirlwind, Wade moaned piteously, “Shut up shut up shut up. . .”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Short but HORRIFIC continuation of previous chapter. Skip if squeamish.

# STOP! WADE! WAAADE! #

Imprisoned inside his own mind, Peter was freaking the fuck out, like a feral predator, terrified and trapped in a too small cage. If his consciousness could manifest corporeally, he’d be desperately throwing his weight, full force, against the bars that separated him from the horrific experiences of his highjacked body. If that failed, he’d gladly bash his brains against the nearest hard surface. As frightening and shocking as the initial possession had been; as shameful and distressing as it had been to watch from within as Octavius murdered Massacre with Peter’s own hand; these emotions paled in comparison to the anguish and despair that flooded through him as his old nemesis used his body to emotionally abuse and physically assault his lover. Knowing Wade’s background as he did only further flavored the guilt and salted the agony Peter felt over this unforgiveable betrayal. 

Had he been capable, Peter would’ve thrown up at this point. As it was, he couldn’t even close his eyes or look away, or do anything but helplessly observe. Filled with righteous indignation and disgust, Octavius was closely watching the glass bottle penetrate and pry open Wade’s vulnerable hole, forcing Peter to witness his violation as well. Before the situation had deteriorated so abysmally, Peter’s thoughts had begged Wade to recognize his possession, to help him, to at least save himself from whatever was going to happen. Now that it was too late, Peter’s inner monologue had devolved into screaming nonsensically, railing uselessly against Octavius and crying out hysterically, but mutely for Wade. 

# NOOO! STOP, YOU FUCKING MONSTER! #

Once the bottle was fully inserted, Octavius leaned heavily over Wade’s body and prodded the glass threateningly even as he whispered harshly in his ear, “You disgust me, you sick, shit stain of a human being. I know all about you. All the people you’ve killed. All the needless destruction and trouble and suffering you’ve caused. It’s mind boggling that Peter’s put up with you for as long as he has. Because you are a BAD person, Deadpool, a criminal and a degenerate, and you should be put down like a rabid animal. . . Since that’s not an option, I can only hope that this punishment will be harsh enough to stick.” 

# WADE! STOPSTOPSTOP! # 

Then he lunged over Wade’s back to grab the far side of the desk. He used his leverage to flip the table over, deftly leaping out of the way as Wade and the desk came crashing backwards to land heavily on the floor. Wade screamed out in agony as the bottle shoved further inside him and broke. The flimsy desk had fallen on top of him, and he writhed and struggled against his bindings as blood appeared between his legs. Octavius was laughing loudly at the other’s suffering, in stark contrast to Peter’s distress, which, with no outlet, had skyrocketed so high that it felt like his psyche was ripping itself a part. He was so desperate to end his own participation in this nightmare, surely if he tried hard enough he could simply will himself out of existence! Surely, surely, surely. . .

Octavius sneered at the moaning, shuddering figure at his feet, then kicked him viciously in the head. Peter felt the crunch as Wade’s eye socket cracked, and saw the figure slump into unconsciousness. His own hysteria stilled as the magnitude of his failure settled on him, driving all other thoughts and feelings from his mind. The righteous disgust that had permeated the entire encounter was clearly Doc Ock’s. 

“Go back to whatever rock you crawled out from, you hideous son of a bitch. I don’t want to see you in my city again.” Then Octavius turned away, leaving a semi-conscious Wade bound on the floor; he stripped off the latex gloves, grabbed the dufflebag he had packed earlier, while Wade had waited for him with spread legs, and calmly left the apartment. He killed the lights and locked the door after himself, feeling entirely justified in his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Superior Spiderman comics, in which Peter supposedly dies and Otto Octavius takes over his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Immediate aftermath of brutal rape (semi-graphic but bad enough). Suicide.

Wade wavered in and out of consciousness for less than an hour before reality sharpened around him and he came to an unwelcoming awareness. He had survived some pretty gruesome deaths, so this wasn’t even close to the worst pain he’d ever woken to. His broken nose and bit lip had repaired themselves, as had his damaged eye and the surrounding bone, but his internal injury was struggling against the bottle shards still lodged deep inside him. He lay awkwardly on broken glass, arms still webbed to the desk on top of him, and he clung urgently to his physical predicament to avoid considering recent events. This was a coping mechanism that he had perfected out of necessity, having never been granted the easy out that Death was supposed to be. 

[But. . . Spidey. . .] Whitey’s voice trailed off into a high pitched keen that Wade recognized as Very Bad Sign.

[[Nothing happened! Get up, Deadpool. Get free. Then I’ll tell you what to do next. Whitey, repeat after me: Nothing happened. We’re fine.]]

[Nothing happened? We’re. . . fine? Nothing happened. Nothing. We’re fine. It’s all fine.]

Every movement dug glass into Wade’s skin, and shifted the shards piercing his rectum, but he did what he had to. It wasn’t like he had any choice, in any of this. Ever. He awkwardly hauled up to his knees, righting the table he was bound to, and then struggled to his feet. Agony seared through his gut as the movements tore up his insides, while blood dripped down his shaking legs and from dozens of other little cuts littered across his body. He ignored the glass digging into his feet and braced against the pain before twisting violently, using his powerful muscles to smash the cheap desk into the wall. He did it again and again, harder and faster, splintering and shattering the weak wood as thoroughly as he himself felt destroyed. By the time the webbing finally pulled free, Wade was nauseated from the pain and the blood flowed freely. 

[[Go to the living room. Get a knife from our boots and cut the webbing to free our hands.]]

Wade limped carefully to the living room, each step stabbing through him. Crouching down seared agony through his abdomen, and his hands trembled as he retrieved the sharp blade from his boot. It was a WWII KA-BAR knife, and one of his favorites. As he held it awkwardly with his bound hands, pointed inward, he realized how long it had been since he’d felt it’s bite, since he’d chosen the extended torment of a strategic knife wound over the instant oblivion of a bullet to the head. 

[How would it feel piercing through the skin below our sternum? Splitting our flesh as it dragged down through our belly? Would we die before or after spilling our intestines?]

[[I promise you, we’ll relearn the answer to that question later. But, right now, first things first.]] 

Wade sawed away at the webbing for several minutes before he was finally free. Then he carefully shifted to his knees and retrieved his phone from his utility belt, only to be confronted with a dilemma that he was in no state to solve rationally. His thumb hovered over Aunt May’s name, instinctively wanting the comfort and help of a woman who, over the months of their acquaintance, had begun to treat him almost as a second surrogate son. But he didn’t want to subject her to this nightmare, neither his condition nor the state of Peter, and she was ill equipped to deal with the full picture anyway. His next instinct was to fall back on old patterns and call Bob (Agent of HYDRA), but he hadn’t talked to him since well before forming Spideypool, and renewing their relationship would only make his inevitable call to the Avengers more difficult. 

He flushed with humiliation as he considered his third option, but then he forced himself to swallow the ash remains of his pride and call Clint Barton. The archer was his best hope for rescuing Peter, and that was the most important thing to consider. Hawkeye picked up almost immediately, despite being the middle of the night, and sounded more curious than annoyed, “Dude. You’ve never called direct before. This better not be for phone sex.” 

“Not. . . really,” Wade choked out, appalled at the raspy sound of his voice.

“What’s wrong?” Barton demanded, voice suddenly sharp.

“I’m, uh, need a favor. It’s gonna sound crazy, but it’s, like, really, really important.” 

[♪♬ Maybe I’m craaazy, maybe you’re craaazy, maybe we’re craaazy. Probably. ♪♬] 

“What is it?” came Barton’s response, and Wade couldn’t tell if he sounded suspicious or concerned. It felt like he couldn’t read anyone anymore, not himself, not Barton, not even Peter; not that reading others had even been a significant skill of his. Wade wasn’t sure if the burning in his stomach was from the shame or the internal damage. Either way, blood had continued streaming down his thighs and was pooling messily on the floor beneath him.

“I need you to bring a baster to my place,” Wade gasped, tone contrasting starkly with the ridiculous request. He wrapped a careful arm around his abdomen in a vain effort to hold still and keep the glass shards from shifting again.

[[We sound completely fucked in the head. He’s never gonna wanna be friends with us after tonight.]]

“O-kaaay.” Barton was definitely skeptical and Wade had to consciously ease his deathgrip on the phone before he broke it to smithereens. “Is there some reason Peter can’t bring you this baster?” 

“Peter has been taken over by Doctor Fucking Octopus,” Wade ground out.

“WHAT?!” Barton cried through the phone. “We’ve gotta tell – ”

[[EVERYONE!!]] “Wait!” Wade begged desperately, terror shooting through his body and forcing him to clench painfully. He couldn’t deal with the humiliation of everyone knowing, seeing; not on top of everything else, not right now. “Please! Just bring me the baster, and I’ll explain. Please, Clint. I’m begging.”

“This better not be some weird sex game,” Clint retorted. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

[A weird sex game? Is that what happened? I usually like those.]

Wade cried out loudly in relief, but Hawkeye had already hung up. He carefully made his way to the bathroom, bringing the knife and phone with him, then spent the next half hour curled up in the bathtub, face pressed into the cool porcelain. He wanted to clean off the telling blood before the other man arrived, but his traumatized body rebelled at the notion of any unnecessary movement. 

Time and awareness seemed to warp and Wade’s vision blurred as he focused on the tiny cartoon Spidey, drawn roughly as though by a child, that danced across the white backdrop of the tub. After a minute, he was joined by a little Deadpool doodle, and the two hallucinations began to duke it out, flipping and kicking and throwing punches until crayon textured blood squirted out from the site of each blow. This continued hypnotically for what seemed like a long time, until cartoon Spidey had thoroughly defeated cartoon Pool and he lay in a pool of his own blood. Eventually a giant penis was drawn on Spidey and he used it to poke at the lifeless caricature of Deadpool. The real Wade closed his eyes to block out the mocking imagery. 

He wasn’t sleeping, but still he startled out of a trance-like state when he heard the loud knock on his door. He stiffly brought the phone up to his face so he could type out a quick message. Barton would just have to pick the lock or break the door down. ((In bathroom)) 

Without having to move much, Wade reached out for the shower curtain and easily tugged it down, the rod clanging loudly to the floor, but the sheet of white plastic provided at least some cover. Wade didn’t have any delusions about the pathetic figure he must strike at the moment, naked in a bathtub and cowering under a shower curtain; covered in blood and cum, as though anything could hide his natural hideousness. 

Barton must’ve picked the lock, for a quiet minute later he cautiously entered the bathroom through the open door. Coming through Peter’s room, he must’ve seen the blood, the shattered glass, and the demolished desk. 

“Deadpool? . . . Shit! What the hell happened?”

[[Tell him. Do it for Peter.]]

The humiliation felt like a balloon inflating in his throat, and he forced back his reflexive impulse to lie, joke, repulse, anything to distract and avoid exposing the raw truth. But he needed Barton on his side, so he growled bluntly, “Spidey beat the stuffing out of me. Only he’s not really Spidey, it’s Otto Octavius in Spidey’s body.”

Barton’s response was skeptical as he continued to take in Wade’s condition, “You said that. How do you know?”

“He fucking broke my face!” Wade barked, fingers clenching into weak fists and still not meeting Barton’s eyes. After a thin, wavering breath, he tried to continue with more composure, “Spidey’d never do something like that, or say some of the awful things he said to me. . . And killing Massacre, on purpose, with a gun? That’s definitely not Spidey.”

“Believe me, Cap and the rest have discussed the situation with Massacre at length. No one’s happy about it, or with the severe beat downs he’s been dolling out to low level bullies. Seems a little out of character, but none of it is proof of possession. . . I mean, how do I know that you and Spiderman didn’t just get into a fight that went too far? So you obviously traded blows, but how many hits did you get in?”

“I didn’t hit him at all!” Wade objected, banging his knuckles sharply against the tub, upset if unsurprised at the direction of the conversation. Octopus’ cruel words echoed through his head: he had asked for this, he was a bad person who deserved this, he was hideous and nasty and disgusting. He did seem to bring bad things on himself.

[[If Barton continues in this vein, we’re gonna have to kill ourselves sooner rather than later. . . I can’t keep us together much longer.]] 

“Well, did you do something to piss him off enough to punch you in the face a couple times?”

“NO!” Wade bellowed, trying to sit up in his distress, only for agony to stab up his core and push him back down. His attempt to muffle his cry of pain was only partially successful. He hated that the other man got to stand over him and witness him like this, so physically and psychologically weak. He hated himself for being so weak to let this happen to him at all.

“I know this is a stupid question, but I literally cannot help myself,” Barton confessed with concern. “Do you need to go to the ER? Or, like, Stark Tower?”

“No fucking doctors,” Wade moaned, as he breathed through the pain. 

Barton was quiet for a long moment, obviously still watching the wounded man. Finally he shifted and asked a different question, “But how do you know it’s Doc Ock?”

“He called himself the Superior Spiderman,” Wade explained, emotional exhaustion warring with his extreme anxiety. “That’s Octopus’ shtick.” 

[[Distract him! If we tell him about the Superior Spiderman comics, he’ll think we’re cracked, then we lose all credibility.]]

So Wade blurted out, “Did you bring the baster?”

Barton held up something, and Wade finally turned his bloody face enough to see the large turkey baster. “What the hell do you need this for?”

[Ooo, I got this one. For a sex game, amirite?]

“Well, it’s either for wound irrigation or artificial insemination,” Wade quipped darkly, only then to gag as his mind flashed to the thought of shoving the baster up into his shredded rectum. “What, ugggh, do you think?”

Barton’s gaze was almost as sharp and piercing as Peter’s could be, and it only took a beat for him to finally see enough. Suddenly his controlled expression was overwhelmed by alarm, body tensing as he growled, “Did. . . did he rape you?”

[Of course not, nothing happened. Can’t rape the willing and all that. We’re a cheap slut who’ll let anyone do anything to us, consent is meaningless.]

[[Fuck, Whitey, you really do have shit for brains.]]

Wade didn’t feel confident in any of his potential answers. He and Peter had blurred more lines than Robin Thicke, and Wade had never had a very accurate moral compass anyway; now he felt more confused than he should be on the issue. After a couple of dizzying seconds, he let his heavy head drop, the side of his skull hitting the hard tub with a loud thud. The brief, localized pain helped him maintain control of his words, “Depending on your definition of the r-rape. . . Can you just leave it here so I can clean up?”

The archer moved deftly and was suddenly crouching next to the bathtub, triggering Wade to flinch away from the unexpected proximity, irrational fear jolting through him. When he opened his eyes, it was only to lower them, away from the fierce look on Barton’s face; but he couldn’t escape the heartfelt words, “I believe you. Spiderman would NEVER do that, whatever definition you use.”

Then Barton slowly reached an arm into the bathtub and pushed the curtain back from Wade’s hands. Wade trembled and watched every move as the archer carefully pried the phone and knife out of Wade’s vice-like grips, replacing the former with the baster. “Here. Do what you need to do. . . I’ll just be in the other room, okay?” 

Wade just closed his eyes, nodding jerkily in response, and finally the other man left, closing the door behind him. Wade’s muscles unclenched slightly, in relief at being alone again, but it only made him more aware of the front of mania that loomed perilously at the periphery of Wade’s mind. It’s dark presence threatened and tempted at the same time, and it took constant grueling effort to keep from being overtaken.

[Peter keeps a pair of scissors behind the mirror.]

[[Soon. But first, time for the enema from Hell.]] 

He left the water running, but there was no way it fully drowned out his jagged cries.

! *_* !

Wade took a long time in the bathroom, but finally emerged healed and clean, at least physically – though not without destroying the bathroom mirror. He immediately put on one of his spare combat suits, and felt somewhat better protected by its thick, constricting leather. It would hold him together until he could safely fall apart. 

[[As far as I’m concerned, we never need to be naked again. It’s time to close up this slut shop, so shit like this stops happening.]]

[Wait, what?! Nothing happened! The slut shop is always open for business!]

Hawkeye was waiting for him, sitting awkwardly at the dining room table and looking decidedly concerned as Deadpool stalked passed him. Pool went straight for the small pile of discarded weapons in the hallway. More effective than even his leather costume, Pool felt safer with both katanas sheathed on his back and a handgun in each thigh holster, then went for broke and hung his AK-47 across his shoulders.

Hawkeye approached cautiously. “Are you okay?”

“I’m always okay,” Pool returned flippantly, despite the agitation that pulsed through him, and crossed his arms defensively across his chest. “It’s the primary perk of regeneration.” Barton gave him a look of disbelief, which Pool ignored in favor of more important issues, “So. You gonna help me save Peter or what?”

Barton showed no surprise at the use of Spidey’s real name, probably because Peter was the only one who thought his identity might still be a secret from any of the Avengers. The archer did, however, sigh and run a tired hand through his spikey hair. “These mind control situations are always a complete clusterfuck, and no two are ever the same. We’re gonna have to get the more cerebral members of the team involved to figure out how to get Parker back in the driver’s seat.”

[[No way. Convincing Barton was hard enough.]]

A surge of tense dread had Deadpool shaking his head manically, the fingers on one hand tapping anxiously against his bicep. “Hell no. I’d rather be fucked gently by a chainsaw than submit to a grilling from Iron Man and Black Widow right now. They won’t be convinced of anything except that it’s all my fault, which they’ll make sure to hammer home until they’ve convinced ME of my own culpability, and then I’ll have to go on ANOTHER suicide spiral, the result of which will be even more wasted time before I can save Spidey.” 

Deadpool paused to breathe and get a better hold of himself. “Besides, I know what to do. Octopus thinks he’s a superior Spiderman to Peter, and that he’s doing the right thing. If we can convince him that Peter is the greater hero, he’ll give him his body back.” 

Barton had followed his manic spiel with a growing expression of apprehension, but now frowned in confusion. “That’s an awfully forgiving view of Doc Ock, especially considering what he did to you. How do you know this?”

[What did Icky Ocky do again?]

“I don’t suppose you’ll take my word for it?” Unable to face the other man, Deadpool turned away to retrieve his discarded combat boots and go sit on the couch to pull them on. The sitting caused discomfort, but it was bearable. Pain is relative after all.

“Not if you’re gonna want my help,” the archer called after him, before following and coming to stand next to the couch. “I’m not a big fan of surprises.”

[[Just hold on a little bit longer. . .]]

Deadpool focused narrowly on tying his second boot as he explained, “I know because that’s how it happens. Octavius gives Peter his body back when he realizes that he can’t be the kind of hero that Peter is. It’s already been written.”

“Already been written? Like in the stars?” Barton asked skeptically.

[♪♬Written in the stars, a million miles away! A message to the main! ♪♬]

Deadpool rubbed his eyes harshly through the leather. He’d yet to find a way to explain this that didn’t sound completely crazy, even by Marvel standards, so when he opened his mouth, the words spilled out rapidly, “More like written in a comic book. You know how some mutants can see into the future? It’s a bit like that, except that some of us feature in comics being written and read in an alternate universe, and I’ve read all the issues. Even though I haven’t literally. If that makes sense.”

Then Deadpool reluctantly glanced over to gauge the other’s reaction. Barton was frowning, looking a little suspicious, but then shrugged. “I’ve heard of stranger things. Got any proof?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Deadpool groaned in frustration, close to his limit for civilized conversation at this point. “Your dog, Lucky, calls himself Pizza Dog, and has a whole issue written from his perspective. . . Which makes you look like a loser, bee tee dubs.”

“That’s, uh, creative, but I don’t think it really qualifies as proof,” Hawkeye harangued, with his usual lack of self-preservation. 

Emotions finally boiling over, Deadpool leapt to his feet as he drew his Desert Eagle, startling the archer as he quickly fired a couple rounds at the wall. “Fuck you, Hawkeye! I can’t do this right now! I appreciate the help, but you need to get the fuck out, whether you believe me or not! Cuz I’m gonna kill myself a dozen times, then I’m gonna go save Peter! What’s the worst Octopus can do?! Torture me?! Fucking kill me?! Sodomize me with a goddamn Jarritos bottle and call me a hideous, nasty shit stain who deserves every horrible that’s ever happened to me?! Nothing can be worse than never getting MY Peter back! NOTHING is gonna fucking stop me!”

[Whaaa-?!] 

[[Shut the fuck up, both of you worthless assholes!]]

Barton tracked Deadpool’s every jerky movement with wide, horrified eyes. When he didn’t respond immediately, Pool roughly ripped off his mask and held Big Boi II under his chin, glaring at the other man like the perfect picture of insanity as he challenged, “Do you really want to stick around for this?”

“Um. . . no,” Hawkeye choked out, palms held up as he quickly backed out of the splatter radius. “I’ll, uh, just let myself out. But I’ll be in touch, okay? Or you call me when you’re ready. Just, just don’t go after Spiderman by yourself, alright? I’ll help.”

Pool watched Barton leave, glaring at him as the Avenger hesitated and looked back at him three different times before finally closing the front door behind him. 

[[Thank you, sweet Jesus, finally. Do it, do it now.]]

Then Deadpool pulled the trigger, blowing his brains all over the place before two hundred plus pounds of dead weight dropped lifelessly to the floor. Peace, fucking finally.

! *_* !

“Peter!” BANG!

“Spidey!” BANG!

[Petey!] BANG!

[[Baby boy. . .]] Bangbangbang!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Worst is over, no Major Warnings. For minor warnings/spoilers, see end of chapter.

After leaving Wade broken in their apartment, Octavius took his duffle bag to a hotel, then fell asleep feeling gluttonously self-righteous. The idea of caring for that psychotic criminal, of actually making love to that disfigured male body was enough to make him sick to his stomach. Meeting the infamous Deadpool had only further solidified his belief in his own superiority over Peter Parker, as no true hero could’ve tolerated such scum in their life. 

Peter, meanwhile, was in a state of shock so severe that he was barely even capable of independent thought or feeling. He identified closely with Alex from Clockwork Orange, eyelids pried open and forced to watch the depth of humanity’s cruelty and depravity. Almost as traumatizing was the second-hand experience of Octavius’ deep disgust towards Wade, and his profound satisfaction at his horrifying punishment. Peter welcomed the oblivion that finally came when Octavius went to sleep.

The next two days passed in a numb, disassociated haze as Peter tried to make himself as nonexistent as possible. He couldn’t bear to be a passenger in his own body anymore, even as Doctor Octopus did ordinary things like flirt awkwardly with Anna Marie (the vertically challenged teaching assistant in his biophysics class) and perform better than even Peter could’ve on his Nanotechnology exam. Peter didn’t really “wake up” to what was going on until the evening that Octavius put on the Spiderman costume to fight the Green Goblin, and even then it was only to stress out about his complete lack of control over the escalating situation. 

But then the miraculous happened. With the Green Goblin laughing from his perch and Anna Marie trapped in front of a speeding train, Octavius hesitated in fear and indecision. Peter, however, didn’t even have to think and instinctively surged against his captivity, only to find himself inexplicably in control of his body. He immediately swung in front of the train without any concern for himself, grabbed Anna Marie, and leapt to safety with less than a second to spare.

Octavius took the reins back a moment later, but the damage had been done. A deep, desperate hope flared bright in Peter as he realized that he was not just a spectator in his own body, that if he waited for the right opportunity, he might be able to reclaim his life. He purposely avoided thinking of the damage control he’d have to do in case of such an eventuality. 

Just as significantly, Octavius’ iron-clad conviction in his own righteousness faltered in the face of such an obvious, appalling failure. It was hard to think of himself as the truly Superior Spiderman when Peter had just proven himself to be more selfless and more heroic. Doubt began to leak in through the crack in his arrogance, and when Peter realized this, he sent small morsels through the crack, to feed and grow those doubts. Otto retreated to his hotel room to rest, hoping to calm his emotional turmoil and recover his confidence, only to find himself haunted by intrusive memories. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he stripped off his Spiderman costume – 

FLASH! Deadpool knocking Spiderman to the ground, covering the smaller body and gladly taking the brunt of the fiery explosion. FLASH! Deadpool again, distraught by Spiderman’s injury, “I wasn’t there. The one time you needed someone to take a hit for you and I wasn’t there. . .” FLASH! Just a couple days ago, the crunch of Deadpool’s skull as Otto kicked the broken man in the head. 

Otto jumped into the shower to calm his nerves and wash away the exertions of the day. He’d had access to Parker’s memories since taking over his body, but he hadn’t lingered much on them. That they were now playing vividly through his mind was rather unnerving, though Otto suspected the other man’s influence. It didn’t matter if the mercenary had a soft spot for Peter Parker, Otto knew what kind of monster Deadpool was, even if his counterpart had allowed himself to forget. After the shower he dressed in some sleep clothes and grabbed an overpriced bottle of water from the hotel mini-fridge. Sitting down on the bed, he looked over the room service menu –

FLASH! Wade in the throes of passionate lovemaking, pledging brokenly, “I’ll be good for you! Please, Peter. . . I can be good, I swear. I’m a good boy.” FLASH! Wade confiding quietly, “I don’t want to be more of a creep, or fucking scary. . . I fight against that part of myself.” FLASH! Wade again, whimpering in response to the verdict delivered by Peter’s tongue, “You’re a BAD person, Deadpool, a criminal and a degenerate, and you should be put down like a rabid animal.” 

Otto tossed the menu away as an encroaching queasiness warred with the hunger typical of his high metabolism body. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to quiet his unsettled mind. He was no longer sure of himself or his actions, and it was both an unfamiliar and unwelcome state of affairs. Deadpool deserved everything that had happened to him, right? Surely all the good intentions in the world, all the efforts at redemption meant nothing compared to the years of mindless killing and thoughtless destruction. 

Except that Otto also had things he to atone for. . .

FLASH! Wade telling him about the harsh abuse he and his mother suffered at the hands of his father, and about the loveless years of suffering through it alone after his mother died. FLASH! Wade reciting the Velveteen Rabbit, voice thick with emotion and vulnerability, only to break down and sob out decades of neglected pain; finally confessing, “You brought me back to life, Peter. . . It’s been so long.” FLASH! Wade submitting, willingly and completely, to his supposed lover’s ill-treatment, letting Otto choke him with his cock and passively absorbing the cruelty. 

“Stop!” Otto demanded, curling up on the bed and clutching his throbbing skull. He didn’t want to see these humanizing memories of Wade Wilson, and he certainly didn’t want to find things in common with the deranged psychopath. His body tensed and ached in sympathy, remembering the painful blows that his own father had rained down on him and his mother. Peter stepped up his attack –

FLASH! Wade serenading him with love songs: Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, Whitney Houston. . . FLASH! “I adore you, Spidey. You’re, like, totally my fave superhero.” FLASH! Wade “learning” to make love, hesitantly brushing his fingertips along Peter’s skin, with such gentle care and reverence. FLASH! The unforgiving glass bottle disappearing into Wade’s clenching sphincter as he whined pathetically. FLASH! Wade assuring his boyfriend, “I love you, Peter, just as you are.” 

Somewhere along the way, the flashbacks morphed into twisted, stressful dreams in which he was once again the supervillian Doctor Octopus, complete with extra mechanical arms, terrorizing a population that refused to respect and admire him. He poisoned the New York City water supply with printers’ ink, killing millions. He skipped from that feat to highjacking a nuclear submarine and decimating the East Coast. He scaled the Empire State Building like King Kong, to crow his victory over a dead land.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Octavius was yanked out of his restless, tormented sleep by a loud pounding that jarred his aching head. He stumbled unsteadily to his feet and shuffled to the door to look through the peephole. 

“Goddamn busybodies,” Octavius mumbled unhappily upon seeing the masked faces and stern mouths of Captain America and Hawkeye. What on Earth were they doing at his door at, uh, 3:34 in the morning? Still, he didn’t need any further trouble with the Avengers, who were already giving him grief about his treatment of Massacre and other villains. 

“One minute!” he called, turning to grab his Spiderman mask –

BANGCRACKTHUD! The door suddenly splintered and flew open forcefully, slamming into the wall even as Otto spun around. “What the Hell?!” 

Deadpool rushed through the door, Cap and Hawkeye at his heals. Otto raised his hands to fight them off, but Hawkeye promptly tazed him and his muscles stopped responding, dumping him on the floor. Then Pool and Cap dragged his limp body over to a hotel chair and roughly bound his arms and legs to its sturdy frame. Otto’s head flopped forward, then gradually straightened as his entire system came back online. He felt a rush of fear as he took in the three masked men, which only escalated as he realized that the two actual Avengers were standing back and letting the mixed bag of crazy cats take point. 

“Your show now,” Captain America indicated with a nod. “Just remember what we talked about.”

“What’re you doing?! Don’t let this deranged lunatic hurt me!” Otto screeched, struggling against his bindings as Deadpool stopped mere inches in front of him. He figured that he’d have a better chance appealing to the two superheroes than to the man he’d tortured # RAPED! # only two days before. Surely they shared his views of the irredeemable Merc with a Mouth?!

Except that Cap and Hawkeye didn’t react to his distress, and while Deadpool twitched rather violently at his words, he then proceeded to lift up his mask, folding it up like a skullcap and revealing the determined, if injured expression on his disfigured face. Then he moved slowly, telegraphing his movements as he placed firm hands on each side of Otto’s face, to still his thrashing before leaning in for a tender, chaste kiss. 

Wilson pulled back slowly, reluctantly opening his eyes. “I know you’re in there, baby boy. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault and I know it wasn’t you. Whatever happens, I won’t give up and I’ll always come for you. . .” Then quieter, though still loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “I love and adore you, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.”

Otto tensed at the swell of hope and guilt and love that echoed through him, and while he recognized that they weren’t his emotions, it didn’t lessen their impact much. The guilt hit him particularly close to home, robbing his next words of any conviction, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. . . And I made it pretty clear that I’m done with you, so I don’t know what you hope to accomplish here.”

Wilson’s head twitched to the side, and behind him Hawkeye scowled, while Cap just stood at parade rest, though clearly watching their exchange closely. Wilson stepped back just enough not to crowd his hostage, then pulled his mask back down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it, Octopus Man, I really do. You wanna do the right thing, you wanna be a big hero, but fate has conspired to cockblock you constantly, and no one ever gives a flying fuck about your best efforts. That’s, like, the story of my life. And, of course, this whole possession shtick is a fantabulous opportunity to shake off all that judgment and start over from a better position. Can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted myself to trade this rotting meat suit for a more attractive model. But the thing about that is. . . it’s not what a hero would do. Believe me, it drives me fucking cray-cray, but real superheroes basically NEVER take the easy or selfish option. Like ever. PETER would never do that.”

Otto opened his mouth to object but – 

FLASH! Kind, funny Anna Marie, who laughed at Otto’s bad jokes, who liked him and had never known the real Peter Parker. Anna Marie, who almost died when the Superior Spiderman hesitated out of fear for his own safety; only for Parker to seize control of their body and selflessly do what Otto could not. 

FLASH! One of his own memories, brought forth by his subconscious: Otto as a young man, spewing vitriol at his mother, spitting his disappointment at her for seeking companionship from an unworthy plebian. Her gentle, wizened face, contorted in pain and misery at his cruel judgment; and still Otto ranted on, missing all the signs until her heart failed and she collapsed on the floor. His beloved mother, the only person in the world who had ever loved and believed in him, the only person who’d ever seen anything truly good in him. His hate killed her.

Meanwhile, Deadpool prattled on in the background like some sensory-based interrogation technique, “Blah blah blah it’s like these heroes think suffering and toil builds character, which, if true, would mean I have more character than Nelson Fucking Mandela, so we know that’s a crockpot full of bull. But do you get the point here? Yuh dig this shit I’m shoveling, Misss-ter Octavius?” 

Peter’s face, as worn by Otto Octavius, was an unreadable mess of contradictions, a base of anger and guilt flavored by a sense of failure and hopelessness; his teeth tried to hold his words in even as his tongue was determined to speak. Long seconds of internal struggle finally yielded one mangled word, “Doc-tor.” 

“What was that?” Deadpool asked provocatively, as though he hadn’t orchestrated the entire exchange. No one could ever say that Deadpool didn’t know what buttons to push to get a reaction. 

“DOCTOR Octavius. I may not have earned Spiderman’s accolades but I did earn that title at least,” Otto asserted petulantly. Captain America inhaled sharply, and Doc Ock realized then that he hadn’t been as convinced of the situation as the other two. Yet he experienced an unexpected lack of regret at the revelation; indeed, all his inner turmoil had suddenly quieted, now that he spoke for himself. 

“Excuse me, DOCTOR Octomom,” Deadpool enunciated clearly. “I dropped out of high school myself. But there is something we have in common. Actually numerous things I suspect. . . Like me, you now have the chance ♪♬ to change your crazy ways, you hear me? ♪♬ You really wanna be a better man? Then do the right thing. . . Perhaps, like me, you’ve tried to do that in the past and have made the wrong choices anyway, but this time it’s Captain America certified. So. . . Give Peter back his body and give the real Spiderman back to the people of New York. And give me back my reason for making it through the day without blowing my bloody brains out, since we all know how effective that is.” 

Otto studied the red and black mask for a long moment, with a faint sense of both irritation and admiration; then he looked at the strong, challenging expression on Steve Rogers’ expressive face, visible even under the cowl, as though he believed that the vile Doctor Octopus could actually make the right decision. 

“But I’ll die,” Otto finally objected, a little morosely, but without any bite or fight. 

Deadpool shrugged. “As a skirted Scotsman once said, “Every man dies. Not every man truly lives.” And if Mel Gibson doesn’t do it for you, well, then let me tell you from personal experience that there are worse things than the eternal sleep. You could be forced to live forever with the guilt of what you’ve done, dying a thousand horrific deaths, only to always return uglier, crazier and even more irredeemable.”

That did sound worse, and Otto felt Peter’s heartbreak at those words, so that it was impossible not to feel a stab of empathy for this tragic man. The empathy in turn allowed the guilt to swell so great that he could barely breathe. Otto had used his lover’s body to brutally rape and break this supposed monster, and yet here that monster stood, more forgiving and understanding than anyone, hero or otherwise, had any right to be. What Otto had done to him was unconscionable, how had he not realized that at the time?! How twisted was his sense of judgment that he could rationalize doing something like that? His own dear mother would be horrified, had Otto’s anger not destroyed her many years ago. He was no superhero, never had been and never would be. 

As Peter flooded his psyche with all the guilt and misery and hopelessness in his arsenal, Otto finally realized the best thing he could do for this world was leave it in the hands of the real heroes. He was just a wolf, pretending to be a sheepdog. 

“Forgive me, mother. I didn’t mean to be this way,” Otto muttered, sight blurring as he loosened the rusty deathgrip he had on this vessel. Then he took in a slow, deep breath and just. . . let go. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body slumped forward lifelessly.

! ^_^ !

Peter’s senses came back first, noting voices and the feeling of something moving against his calves; and the pervasive, agonizing brainache of course. A couple seconds later, muscle control returned and his head rose up on a wobbly neck. Deadpool was kneeling before him, freeing his legs from their bindings, while both Cap and Hawkeye hovered just behind him. 

“Welcome back,” Barton greeted, with a small, sympathetic smile. “Looks like you’re suffering from Acute Possession Hangover. It’s a thing.”

At the archer’s first words, Deadpool’s attention shifted up to focus on Peter’s face. A beat later he yanked off his mask so quick that Peter knew the leather must’ve chaffed, and this signaled that his critical thinking capacity was coming back on line. Almost immediately, his lover stared intensely into his eyes and asked with a vulnerable note of hope, “Peter?”

Peter’s second bewildered thought was: Fuck, the Avengers know my identity. He cleared his throat, looking up from Wade’s begging expression to make brief eye contact with Captain America, then Hawkeye. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Sorta. He didn’t feel like himself though, or feel much at all in fact. Obviously there was guilt and misery and relief. . . and other shit too, but it was all muffled and distorted and not of much interest right now anyway. 

Wade promptly lurched forward, his typical approach to hugging, and wrapped his arms around Peter in a tight embrace that buried his face into the young man’s abdomen. Ugh – it put pressure on Peter’s fluttering stomach, making him feel kinda queasy. Peter instinctively placed a hand on Wade’s shoulder, either to comfort him or protect himself, it was impossible to say.

“How do you feel?” Cap asked with his usual care and genuine concern™. 

Peter offered Barton a weak smile. “Like my brain is a slug that someone stomped on.”

Barton smirked back, looking relieved. “That’s the feeling. Ye ol’ possession hangover.”

“Also, tired,” he sighed. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so exhausted in his entire life. 

Wade jerked back. “Lemme take you home! You can sleep for as long as you need, I’ll just watch. No molesting.”

Peter blinked, faintly uneasy at those words, but he wasn’t even sure if it was his or Wade’s discomfort, let alone what had triggered it. 

“Uuuh. . .,” Barton intoned loudly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Of course it is!” Wade insisted, shooting the archer a glare, clearly miffed that Barton would insinuate anything different. “This is Peter and Peter belongs at home with me,” he explained with his own flawless brand of logic. 

“No, I mean what happened there,” Barton corrected with a twitchy little frown that made Peter’s body twitch in sympathy.

Wade’s face fell comically (except that it so wasn’t funny) as he turned back to Peter. “Forgive me, I know how much you hate it when I, uh, um. . . Well, I cleaned up the brain and bone gore, but, you know, blood doesn’t clean off white paint too easily. Hate to say it, but the walls and or ceilings are ruined in, like, every room except the bathrooms.” 

“What’re you talking about?” Cap demanded, looking confused and disturbed even through his cowl. 

Peter knew exactly what Wade was talking about; knew that he should be horrified and heartbroken by his admission; knew he should feel guilty for having driven him to suicide. And he did know. . . sorta. Distantly. He also remembered clearly what else had happened in their apartment, and given the expression of frustration and disbelief on Barton’s face, Peter suspected that he did too. Was Wade not at all disturbed by the idea of returning to the scene of the Event? Surely Peter understood Wade well enough to know that wasn’t true, but without his own emotional feedback to litmus test his conclusions, it was difficult for Peter to be certain of anything. Was Wade disregarding his own needs in favor of Peter’s? Or was he as numb to the horror of the Event as Peter was?

While Peter was lost in slow moving thought, Cap had read enough faces to draw at least some of the right conclusions. “You could always come back to the Tower. Both of you.”

Wade was still kneeling, basically leaning into Peter’s lap, so it was impossible to miss how the merc tensed at the suggestion. Peter saw no appeal in the possibility himself, it sounded exhausting to be surrounded by that many loud and demanding personalities. He needed someplace he could retreat and bury himself, where he could close his eyes and forget to wake up for a long, long time. “I wanna go to Aunt May’s.”

“That’s the very best idea, Spidey!” Wade agreed enthusiastically, nodding his head a little manically. “Auntie May’ll fix everything!”

Cap nodded, but, “We’ll have to send over a telepath in a couple of days, once you’re up for it. Just to be certain that you’re completely free from outside influence. I hope you understand.”

Peter conceded reluctantly, and then also agreed to call either Rogers or Barton if he needed anything, which was enough of a transition cue that Wade finally backed up so that they could stand. Peter was mildly surprised to walk normally, having subconsciously expected to move like a cripple, like someone who hadn’t had control of his body for weeks. Cap and Barton went to make excuses to the hotel manager, while Deadpool led a lethargic Peter outside and into a cab.

“Talk to me, baby boy. Do you need anything? You okay?” Deadpool harangued after a moment, facing him with concern obvious even through the battle mask. 

Peter stared blankly back at him, feeling more pity for the both of them than he had felt anything else since coming back to himself. He also registered that sickening twist and clench of his guts again. “No.”

Pool grabbed his limp hand. “I’ll do anything to fix this. Just tell me what.”

Peter shook his head and gazed morosely out the window. “Nothing. It’s not you. . . I’m just so tired. I’m done.”

“You can sleep soon,” Pool assured, as though that would fix anything.

It was the wee hours of the morning, and not an appropriate time to be crashing anyone’s house; but that would just have to get in line behind all the other awful things he’d done, things for which Peter simply hadn’t the energy to feel guilty. If he tried, it’d destroy him. He had a key, so they let themselves in, after which he slipped a letter under his aunt’s bedroom door, explaining that they were crashed out in Peter’s room. Finally, finally, he was able to lay down, close his eyes, and give in to the beaconing oblivion. Wade borrowed Aunt May’s robe from the bathroom, then crowded in with him on the single bed. Peter barely noticed. 

He slept almost without waking for three days straight, only vaguely aware of the passage of time. Wade had laid with him until the next morning, but after a long conversation with May, he’d left, only to return later with clothes and stuff from their apartment. After that, Wade had dragged a worn armchair into Peter’s childhood room, and spent the day staring at Peter and muttering quietly to himself, which Peter tried his hardest to ignore. His aunt had also taken that first day off of work, and came and went several times, but Peter didn’t register much beyond the soothing tone in her voice and the frequent but unappealing scent of food. 

On the second day in bed, Aunt May returned to work, though she made sure to check on him that morning and several times that evening. After Peter had snapped at him that he needed his space, Wade had, thankfully, found other places to be. Sometimes Peter could hear him listening to loud TV in the living room, while other times he was pretty sure he’d left the house altogether. On the third day, Wade led Dr. Jean Gray into the bedroom, and Peter consented numbly to a medical check and a thorough telepathic scan. Apparently Peter was free of any outside influence, though she noted that he was clearly not coping well and displayed numerous signs of embarking on a Major Depressive Episode. Peter wasn’t much interested in that topic, or Dr. Gray’s advice on his mental health, so he had turned away and buried himself under a seasonally inappropriate blanket.

“What can I do?” Deadpool whined, increasingly antsy and agitated by Peter’s state. God, his very presence was exhausting and grating – a thought which only made Peter feel worse, and despise himself a little more. 

Peter couldn’t see Dr. Gray, but her voice conveyed the appropriate amount of sympathy, “You can try to get him to eat, bathe, and take care of himself, maybe encourage him to go outside and get back into his usual routine. But frankly, Wade, most of his recovery is up to him. It’s too early to consider medication, though that might be an option in the future. I’m sure he would benefit from talking to someone – ”

“I’ve been trying!” Pool interrupted a little frantically. “But he just lays there, saying he’s tired and doesn’t want to talk!”

“If you’d let me finish, I was saying that maybe he should talk to someone other than you, given your involvement in recent events. I’ll leave you the contact info for a couple therapists that are familiar with the. . . unique needs and traumas of the powered community. You might want to consider seeing someone yourself.”

“Why would I do that? You been poking around my cheese grater too?!” Deadpool demanded defensively.

Peter could practically hear Dr. Gray’s eye roll. “I didn’t have to, I’ve seen enough of Peter’s memories to know that you and Peter are both victims here. It’s a rare person who could escape such brutal experiences unaffected.”

“That’s me, the rarest of rainbow-shitting unicorns,” Pool snarked. “I’ve had so many of these fucking experiences that I can’t even remember them all, let alone tell them apart! Though I do specifically recall that the last shrink I was forced to see locked me up and TRIED to throw away the key. Before I killed him. Sooo. . . thanks, but fuck no.”

Dr. Gray sighed, clearly not having expected much success on this front, and her shoes clicked on the floor as she moved towards the door. “Regardless, I hope you’ll encourage Peter to talk to someone. He doesn’t have your background in denial and might actually need to process what he’s been through.”

Deadpool grunted in acknowledgement, then the door opened and Dr. Gray bid farewell to Peter before they both left the room. Peter didn’t respond or move, he was just grateful to be left alone again, to slip back into unconsciousness.

The next day was a Saturday and Peter dozed more lightly, sporadically startling to an unwelcome awareness. With his aunt checking on him frequently, it wasn’t long before she caught him in a more lucid moment and forced him to eat something. 

“Please talk to me, sweetie. What’s tearing you up so badly?” she asked kindly as he finished a bowl of sweetened oatmeal. “I haven’t seen you like this since – well, since after Gwen died.”

Without meeting her eyes, Peter sighed and mustered up the energy to mumble, “What did Wade tell you?”

May scowled unhappily, as only an old lady can. “That you were held hostage for a couple weeks and, I quote, given the Clockwork Orange eyeball treatment.”

Peter remembered thinking something similar during his captivity, and the flash of connection caused a strange ache in the center of his chest, joined by the nauseating stab of guilt that he’d come so associate with thoughts of Wade. He barely managed a response, “That’s about right. . .” 

Peter swallowed the frog in his throat and tried again, “You remember a few years ago when that supervillian, Doctor Octopus, terrorized the City?”

May nodded slowly with obvious trepidation, putting aside his empty bowl. “Yeah. Spiderman supposedly stopped him.”

Peter grunted in self-mockery. “Supposedly being the operative word. It was him, his real name is, was, Otto Octavius. He basically dragged me with him for all that time, making me watch while he did all these mundane, daily things. . . only to get angry and self-righteous and then do something horrible and violent. I got front row seat to him killing someone and later beating these other two guys almost to death. And then, then, um, he. . .” 

Peter’s breath was coming a little short as his mind truly confronted the magnitude of his sins for the first time. Memories threatened to overwhelm briefly before his aunt reached out and grounded him with a soothing hand on his arm. “You’re okay now, just take your time.”

After a long moment to calm and orient himself to the present, Peter continued through the stranglehold on his throat, “Then he, uh, hurt Wade. I know he seems okay now, but Octavius. . . he t-tortured him. Like, really ugly stuff that I can’t unsee. I try not to think about it, but sometimes I can still FEEL the horror.”

“Oh, honey. That’s awful.” Aunt May commiserated, almost crying as she pulled him into a motherly hug. “What kind of monster would do such a thing? Was it because of Wade’s work with those Avengers?”

Peter’s body convulsed in a sob, guilt physically assaulting him at the prospect that his aunt could in any way blame Wade; even if he could barely stomach the merc since returning to himself. He choked out his answer, muffled by his aunt’s shoulder, “No, he just got caught in the crossfire. Wade saved me. . . And now when I look at him, all I feel is shame and guilt for what happened.”

Tears sprung up in the corners of his eyes as a squall of grief and sorrow tore through him, compounded a million times by the suffocating, soul crushing guilt that had been rather thoroughly walled off. He cried roughly and wetly, face red and twisted, for maybe twenty seconds before the blessed barrier started rebuilding itself and smothering everything. 

“It doesn’t sound like there was anything you could’ve done, and I’m sure you did the best you could, because I know YOU, Peter Benjamin Parker. And Wade clearly doesn’t blame you either, all I ever hear from him is how worried he is about you. That man completely adores you.”

Peter was already too numb and drained to fully appreciate the words, but he let her hold him for a long time, well after his tears had dried. It was nice to just rest and ache in silence for once, with Aunt May gently rocking their bodies until the calm comfort lulled him back to sleep. Wade returned that evening, bringing his fretful attention and suffocating concern, but Peter couldn’t muster the will to say a single thing to him, much less feel again. He turned away from all that overwhelming manic energy, grateful that his cartoonish lover was sticking with the armchair, then dropped back into blissful unconsciousness.

On the fifth day, May finally convinced Peter to shower, after which he relocated his depression to the couch. He didn’t watch TV so much as reluctantly trudge through the backlog of thinking that needed to be done. He really couldn’t put off the situation with Wade any longer, despite the guilt that gnawed through his abdomen any time his mind drifted in that direction. And yet, once he got going, his thoughts unfurled with surprising clarity and certainty, eerily unfettered by the emotional onslaught that he’d expected. 

The bottom line was that Peter had allowed himself to pursue a relationship with the deeply damaged man because he KNEW he’d never hurt Wade, certain that he’d never turn into another abuser in a long line of them. Only Peter had been most thoroughly proven wrong. He’d hurt Wade in the worst way imaginable, intimately and unforgivably, and. . . for some of it, Wade had actually let him. Had they really blurred the lines of their relationship so badly that Wade couldn’t recognize that something was that wrong until it was too late? Or, more likely, had Wade’s abysmal self esteem and high tolerance for abuse simply allowed him to ignore all the warning signs?

Peter sighed and buried his face into the crook of the couch. He was just so tired of the same old problem rearing its ugly head again and again, and this time it made him angry. Why did he always have to be the one responsible for their safety and wellbeing? He wanted to blame Wade, push him away, anything to blunt the force of his own overpowering guilt – even though he knew intellectually that he shouldn’t. Like Dr. Gray had said, they were both victims of Octavius, as was their battered relationship. Everything had been ruined, and Peter simply hadn’t the energy or capacity to fix any of it. 

When Deadpool joined him later that afternoon, leaping over the back of the couch to bounce heavily next to him, his high-octane mania was raring to go, “Spidey! You’re outta hibernation! Thank fuck! As much as I adore watching you sleep, these last few days have been WAY too much of a good thing. All this silence is making me wanna to talk to myself again! Anyhoo! You’re lookin’ better, Good Lookin’, showering becomes you! Don’t tell May, but I haven’t showered since we’ve got here. How yuh feelin’?”

The idea of misleading small talk or cushioning white lies was too exhausting for Peter, even listening to Wade was like standing right next to a freight train as it barreled by. The depressed young man hunched forward defensively and stared at the floor like a coward as he launched straight to the heart of the matter, “Not good, Wade. I kinda hate myself right now, and when I look at you I feel so damn guilty, it just makes everything worse.” 

Deadpool just looked a Peter for a long, frozen moment, held tilted to the side as his likely took suggestions from his boxes. Then he slowly pulled off his hood, making the rusty transition to Wade. “None of what happened was your fault, baby boy. Doc Ock is the creep that did all those things, and now he can never hurt anyone again. We won. We saved the day.”

Peter winced and hated Wade a little for even saying such unbelievable shit. “It doesn’t feel like we won. It feels like a giant scab has been ripped off of us, and underneath is an ugly, bleeding wound. And if I try to move at all, I’m gonna end up hurting you again. And I’m afraid, cuz I don’t trust you to stop me.”

Wade wore his heartbreak on his sleeve, and though Peter wasn’t done, he already had a high speed comeback, “You don’t need to worry about me, Petey. Octo-punk didn’t break me, and I ain’t afraid of getting hurt anyways. Don’t forget what Kelly Clarkson said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!” I’m so fucking strong by now, I’m practically the Hulk. Amirite?” Then he shut his motor mouth with a clack, and took a deep breath in a visible effort to calm down. “I just wanna help you get through this. You’re the wind beneath my wings, remember?”

His words exemplified just how much Wade did not understand the problem, and likely never would; so Peter tried again, using a vein of irritation to sound stern and resolved, “The POINT is, Wade, that I’m not in a good place right now, and that I need space to get through this. I need the freedom to take care of myself, which I can’t do while in a relationship with you. . . I think the healthiest thing for both of us is to take a break. Maybe permanently, I don’t know.”

Wade’s expression of utter shock and devastation was only visible for a moment before everything, from his face to his posture, suddenly closed up faster than a Stark Industry security system. He leapt to his feet and tugged his mask back on a beat later, struggling a little with unsteady hands. Indeed, his entire body was visibly shaking even as his ego completely unraveled and rage erupted from his mouth –

“So after we save your sorry ass from Octo-pussy, and oh-so-patiently put up with you ignoring us for days, now you’re gonna fucking dump us like last week’s rank garbage?! All because poor Peter is fucking traumatized, and can’t cope with the guilt of killing ONE DAMN DOUCHE CANOE?! Can’t deal with ONE dubcon clusterfuck with the so-called love of your life?! Oh boo-fucking-hoo, you self-centered, sanctimonious child! Welcome to OUR WHOLE GODDAMN LIFE! We’ve been Bob Seger’s fucking Rock for you!”

Peter knew he should feel something more regarding his actions – shame at dumping Deadpool, grief for the death of the their relationship, sympathy for the other man’s current distress – but he could only vaguely recognize those emotions though the wall of numbness that held them at bay. If anything, he mostly felt relief as his situation synced up with his inner desolation, and his response was firm, if quiet, “I just need to be alone right now, I’m sorry.” 

Deadpool was all tense muscle and hostile demeanor as he lunged forward, grabbing Peter’s loose shoulders and forcing him to look closely at his masked face. “You’re fucking SORRY?! I’m the one who’s sorry! A sorry, pathetic asstard for falling so hard for you, and all your I-love-all-of-you BULLSHIT!” Deadpool’s voice dropped suddenly, and he leaned even closer to menace between tightly clenched teeth, “I should run you through for doing this to me. If you were anyone else, if I’d, I’d. . . FUCKING FUCK!”

Then Deadpool ripped himself away from Peter and stumbled backwards in the direction of the front door. He took a moment to steady himself at the mouth of the foyer, breathing deeply before warning harshly, “Stay the hell outta my way. Next time I see you, I just might kill you.”

Then he was gone, slamming the door so hard behind him that the decorative glass broke. Peter was dismayed to realize that, actually, the feeling of relief only floated on the surface of an even deeper, darker pool of wretchedness and hopelessness. There was nothing for it except to retreat back to the bedroom and go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Flashbacks, suicide, depression.  
> THANKS TO THOSE WHO HAVE REVIEWED!


	5. Chapter 5

Deadpool hadn’t crashed so hard in years, not since Typhoid Mary had seduced him while posing as Siryn. It was like a really, REALLY bad mushroom trip, senses wonky and thoughts warped, memory full of holes and hallucinating so intensely that he barely knew up from down. He had no clue if or how he’d gotten home from May’s house in Queens, it was a blur of loathing and hatred aimed at a mocking caricature of Spiderman that persisted in the corner of his vision. Once home Pool went straight for the nearest gun and shot up the apartment trying to silence the taunting cartoon figure, for all the good that did. Yellow attempted to talk them through their pinwheeling emotions, to hold their fraying shit together, but it was a fool’s errand from the start and he soon gave up. Completely.

[[I’m outie, you endless fuckups. Have fun going psycho again.]] 

Raging Deadpool didn’t even try to off himself; the violent, manic fire that seared angrily through him was not burning inward this time. He had the vague idea to line up a job, or find a fight, or at the very least drop into an active warzone, anything to have a target for the tornado of aggression that was only growing faster, stronger, and more destructive. He felt like one of his own specialty bombs – counting down quickly, and wired to blow immediately if tampered with.

Caught in the overwhelming tide of desperation, he pounded on his phone and demanded, “I’m gonna kill a bunch of fucking somebodies, so point me in the right fucking direction!”

However many days later, Deadpool had only vague memories of how he’d ended up alone in the middle of a humid jungle, armed to the teeth and hunting down a bunch of. . . something. Bad people perhaps, or vampire sheep. Or maybe zombie unicorns. Whatever, the hallucinations kept changing on him, but who gives a rat’s ass anyway?

Of one thing Deadpool was certain: he was a vicious dragon, as unconcerned with the fire within as the smoking hellscape surrounding him. He breathed out his murderous rage, burning up flora and fauna and human flesh equally, setting the whole world ablaze. Armageddon was nigh, and the four horsemen had nothing on Dragonpool, who rained down fire and brimstone on any and all sinners. His guns barely saw any action, and his katanas even less, as he stuck to his flamethrower like it had seared to his charred palms. Which maybe it had. 

[BURN, BABY, BURN! You too, you mangy motherfucker! And don’t think I’ve forgotten you, you fugly son of a bitch! Hey, I’m not done with you, don’t you fucking running away from me! YOU WON’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANGRY! I’ll show those damn Russians a REAL scorched earth policy! There won’t be NOTHING left when I’m done with y’all!]

Yellow remained silent during this rampage, having apparently abandoned Dragonpool like everyone else in his life. Despite a conspicuous lack of Something, he wasn’t missed much, as Dragonpool had zero interest in ruminating on Peter or the past, or in thinking at all really. Whitey more than made up for his absence by never shutting up, his relentless inner monologue in perfect harmony with the screams of his scorched, dying prey. Dragonpool was too busy reveling in their reign of death and destruction to spare much consideration for what had been lost.

[Damn, I love the smell of barbeque in the morning! ♪♬ The house is burned, the house is burned! The children are gone! Fire! Fire! Fire on Babylon! ♪♬]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for "mild" warnings/spoilers (it's all relative).

The repetitive nothingness of Peter’s days had blurred together into a timeless, hazy block of depression, so that he didn’t even know or care what day of the week it was. When not sleeping, he stared at the bedroom ceiling for so long that he memorized every imperfection, even scripted extremely boring backstories for the peeled paint and single old watermark. The room really needed to be repainted, and every morning he stared at the ceiling and made plans to go out to buy paint, but then hated himself a little more each afternoon when he’d failed to even get dressed. Even moving out to the living room couch for a couple hours every other day seemed like more effort than it was worth. 

Dr. Gray had filled out the necessary paperwork to grant him medical leave from school, but he hadn’t made any effort to keep his job. Jameson could go fuck himself, along with everyone else for all he cared. Of course, not everyone would accept that and leave him to wallow in his own oily stench. His aunt, for one, was getting fed up with his behavior and had started prodding him pretty hard to go meet with a psychiatrist. Peter hadn’t given in, but suspected that it was only a matter of time before he yielded to her superior willpower. She had every right to worry, what with him not bathing, only rarely eating, and basically growing roots.

However, the situation with his aunt never did come to head, as ten days after his break up (not that he was aware of either date exactly), Peter received two unexpected visitors. Aunt May was at work, and Peter wouldn’t’ve answered the door anyway, so it was barely surprising when Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton appeared uninvited in the doorway of his darkened bedroom. 

Romanov immediately made for the window, opening it wide as Barton snarked, “Peee-uuu! Smells like something died in here. Hope you aren’t keeping any rotting pieces of your boyfriend around, cuz that’s just disgusting, no matter how touching.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” Peter mumbled, struggling lethargically to sit up in his bed. He would’ve loved nothing more than to just ignore the two of them until they gave up and departed, but he was under no illusions as to how well that would work. He was acutely depressed, not stupid.

“Well, that explains a lot,” Barton responded rather darkly, exchanging an unsubtle glance with Romanov. 

Peter was just curious enough to follow up, though without much actual interest, “Explains what exactly?”

Romanov stepped closer, a single perfect eyebrow raised in challenge. “While you’ve been savoring your self-pity and misery from the comfort of home, Deadpool has been in Colombia for the last week. Apparently burning down the rainforest and FARC guerillas with equal fervor.” 

Okay, so that sounded bad, but. . . “What’s that got to do with me? Like I said, we’re not together anymore, and I didn’t ask much about his contracts even when we were.”

Romanov’s eyes narrowed in irritation, then she spoke down to him like he was a complete idiot, “There is no contract, Parker, he’s had a severe break down and gone on that psychotic killing spree we all tried to warn you about. And the timing has everything to do with you.” 

Peter’s pulse picked up for the first time in days, accompanied by a nauseating knot of guilt and concern. When he didn’t immediately respond, petrified by the sudden influx of distressed energy, Barton chimed in, “Fury is sending us in to pick him up, leaving tonight. If he fights us, we’re under orders to take him to the Negative Zone.”

“You can’t do that!” Peter objected, scrambling to his feet, only for his stiff legs and low blood sugar to promptly drop him on the floor. “Ow! Shit!”

“We can, and we will,” Black Widow assured firmly as Barton held out a hand to help Peter to his feet. “The locals are calling him El Diablo Del Fuego. According to reports, he’s running around with a flame thrower and has already killed dozens of guerillas. Hundreds of others are fleeing, and it’s destabilizing the entire region. It’s only a matter of time before innocents get caught in the crossfire, if it hasn’t happened already.”

“It’s basically a shit show,” Barton summarized, letting go of Peter so he could stand on his own. “And we’re pretty sure he’s gonna fight us. He’s so far off the reservation at this point, I kinda doubt he’s even gonna recognize us, let alone listen to reason.”

Distressed panic gave Peter more energy than he’d had in the two weeks plus since repossessing his body. It felt like his slow, foggy brain had finally rebooted, only it had been secretly upgraded to a glitchy hyperspeed inappropriate to his hardware. His thoughts raced: Black Widow was right, the timing of this had to be his fault; between the Event and the break up, Peter had basically pushed Wade off that thin edge of sanity upon which he’d balanced so precariously. It was so predictable that Peter cursed himself for being so many kinds of stupid, and depressed, and crazy. “Fuck me! I swore I wouldn’t hurt him, but that’s all I seem to do! What’s wrong with me?!”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Romanov snapped, hands resting on her hips. “Help us fix this.”

“I won’t help you take him to the Negative Zone,” Peter shot back immediately, a deep scowl on his brow. “That would destroy him, and he’d never recover his mind. Which is not fair, cuz he’s been trying to be a better person for years now. It’s my fault he’s gone off the rails.”

“Then help us talk him down,” Barton urged convincingly. 

Peter’s mind bounced spasmodically from thought to thought, attempting to fully consider the situation. He cringed away from the possibility of seeing Deadpool again after all the hell he’d put the damaged man through, but the idea of leaving him to the mercy of SHIELD or the Avengers was even more unacceptable. And yet Peter wasn’t at all convinced that he was capable of “talking him down”, and Pool’s parting words echoed through his thoughts. “Next time I see you, I just might kill you.” Now those words took on new meaning and Peter wondered whether Wade had known what was coming, which only made him feel even more stupid and guilty. Given his abysmal record with relationships, Wade probably had known, while Peter was certainly familiar enough with the situation that he should’ve known – and would have, on a good day. 

Maybe this was his penance, come what may.

Peter groaned and rubbed his temples, wishing he hadn’t spent the last two weeks as a human blob. He’d need all the wits and strength at his disposal to navigate this situation to Pool’s benefit. He generally liked the Black Widow, but he didn’t trust her to respect him or his judgment. “Fine. But only if we do this my way. Which means I go in alone. Wade and I didn’t part on the best of terms, so this is likely to get ugly. But I don’t want any interference, no matter what. I refuse to be bait.”

Romanov arched a perfect eyebrow. “No deal. There has to be a contingency plan in case you fail. Plus, you at least need a pilot to get you there.”

Those were both valid points, which Peter’s mind boomeranged between possibilities before finding an acceptable solution. “Fine. I want Banner as my backup. Hawkeye can fly us down, but only if you follow Banner’s lead on getting involved.” 

Both agents looked surprised at his compromise, but Peter thought it was perfect. The Hulk was one of the few Avengers capable of safely neutralizing Deadpool, while Banner wouldn’t risk a transformation unless truly necessary – thereby giving Peter the substantial leeway he would likely need to get through to his former lover. 

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Barton said after a pause. “Banner spent however many months hiding and providing medical assistance in rural Colombia. He can probably navigate the local scene better than we can. I’m game.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Romanov countered, but she sounded more thoughtful than put out. “You realize he might kill you before the Hulk can come to your rescue.”

“He’ll almost certainly try,” Peter confirmed grimly. “But that’s my problem, and I’m pretty sure the only hope for Wade is if it stays that way.”

! ^_^ !

The two assassins soon departed for Stark Tower to work on Banner, leaving Peter to get himself ready enough for the upcoming ordeal. First he had to eat the entire half pan of leftover ziti, then shower, and finally call this aunt to explain that he was going on a short trip to find Wade and hopefully help him get through the emotional fallout from their ordeal. His aunt was thrilled that he was showing any signs of life at all, and clearly interpreted his words to mean he would be getting back together with Wade. Peter wasn’t sure that was even an option given their recent history, but he hadn’t the heart to disabuse her of her optimism. 

Finally, he impatiently took a series of subways to Harlem, to the apartment he’d shared with Wade. During the early days of Peter’s depression, Wade had supposedly stashed his web shooters and Spiderman costume there, and Peter could only hope that his former lover hadn’t taken out his rage on them after Peter had dumped him “like last week’s rank garbage”. Now he opened the unlocked door cautiously and with trepidation. 

The place was pretty much what he’d imagined, though the reality was still appalling. Wondering though their living and dining rooms, it was impossible to ignore the large swaths of stinking blood smeared on the floors, walls, and ceilings, where Wade had done a poor job of cleaning up. Given the number of identifiable sites, Wade must’ve seriously injured or killed himself at least a half dozen times in the two biggest rooms alone. Peter had a vague memory of Wade bemoaning the state of the apartment, but couldn’t tell if he felt better or worse for knowing that most of this bloodshed was prompted by the Event, not Peter’s subsequent abandonment. The large slashes through the couch, on the other hand, Peter suspected were more recent, and possibly the bloodless bullet holes that littered every wall and appliance – particularly the stacked washer and dryer that Peter had so painstakingly saved for.

Peter wiped tears from the corner of his eyes, forcing himself away from the grief and melancholy that threatened to engulf him. Wade needed him now, and if he succumbed again to the mind-numbing, soul-eating, life-destroying depression. . . well, he’d only fail Wade again, completely and likely for the last time ever. So despite the sinister siren’s call coming Peter’s room, despite the flashback that hovered on the edge of his recollection (the taste of Jarritos on his lips), he did not enter. It was difficult enough to shy away from the memory of roughly facefucking Wade in the living room.

He quickly went to the other bedroom, technically Wade’s but which they had generally both shared, and ignored the slashed mattress and bloody smears in favor of the closet. The closet door had a spattering of bullet holes, but upon inspection, Peter suspected that Wade hadn’t bothered to open it during his fits of destruction. Not only was Wade’s spare combat suit still hanging up, but Peter’s own web shooters were in one piece and he could only find two small caliber holes in his folded Spiderman costume. He counted it as a win and changed into his Spiderman getup, then on a whim grabbed one of Wade’s soft masks, figuring that since they were both in the closet, the merc must’ve gone to Colombia with just his combat suit. Finally, he left his haunting former home, moving quickly and with determination. No matter what happened with Wade in the future, he’d never live there again. 

! ^_^ !

When Spiderman arrived at Stark Tower a short time later, Banner and Rogers were, surprisingly, already on board with the plan. He wanted to believe that they were motivated by a genuine desire to help Wade, as both men had gradually warmed (just a little) to the damaged man during the course of their relationship; but it was equally likely that Black Widow and Hawkeye had clued them in as to just how far Spiderman was going to fall if Wade ended up in the Negative Zone. Stark, thank God for small mercies, was on the West Coast and hadn’t been consulted at all. 

Spiderman, Banner, and Hawkeye left within the hour, Hawkeye at the helm while the other two were briefed remotely by SHIELD’s intel people. None of it was good, nor was any of it surprising. If Peter had learned anything in the last months, it’s that the situation can always get worse. Banner, however, figured that it would be a good idea to rest and meditate, leaving Spiderman to listlessly find his way to the cockpit. After two weeks of sleeping, he now felt so wired that he fully intended to stay awake for days on end. He made himself sit still and not fidget, but his tension must’ve been obvious. Barton wasn’t particularly subtle about repeatedly glancing in his direction, though he did wait fairly long before interrupting the buzzing, busy silence. 

“So, Spidey. Anyone ever tell you about the time I was mind controlled by Loki?”

Spiderman shook his head, and turned to study the older pilot, glad for a conversation to focus on. None of the Avengers had any pleasant memories of the Chitauri invasion, so he’d only ever heard snippets of the inside story.

“Good,” Barton gruffed. “It’s my story to tell. . . Happened like this: Thor’s megalomaniacal brother basically made me his bitch, so I helped him escape and then led a tactical team to invade SHIELD’s helicarrier. We slaughtered dozens of agents. Mostly people I knew and worked with.”

Peter felt so much guilt over his actions, particularly the Murder and the Event, that it was hard to imagine how mass killing “innocents” could magnify his feelings. Only because it was clearly so personal for both of them, Spiderman was able to ask the tactless question, “How can you live with yourself?” 

“What choice do I have?” Barton returned with a shrug, eyes forward, and Spidey could make out the hearing aids hidden behind his ears. “It gets better with time. At first I could barely stand to look at the faces of the survivors, even the few that were friends. I was ashamed for having been so weak. I felt terribly guilty too, of course, but fighting against Loki and putting him away helped with that. Just by working to undo the damage, eventually you come to believe the truth: that the things that happened while under another’s control weren’t your fault. . . The shame, however, takes longer.” 

Spidey looked morosely down at his gloved hands. He did feel ashamed, so very very ashamed. “I raped him,” he whispered, only able to admit it because he suspected that Barton already knew. 

Barton still did not face the younger man, but his voice was calm and rational, if somewhat grim, “Octavius raped him, and he knows that. He called me for help after, you know. And I’m not gonna lie, it was certified Horrible. He was definitely messed up. All leave-me-alone-so-I-can-off-myself, but that’s just how he deals with emotional pain. He was very adamant about saving you. No one else even realized that you were being controlled.”

The words only made Spidey’s guilt swell again, but it somehow felt healthier for being shared and ventilated. “And then I told him that I couldn’t trust him to stop me from doing it again, and dumped him.” 

Spidey made out Barton’s wince before burrowing his head in his hands. Barton sighed. “So you handled the fallout poorly, you aren’t the first. You should’ve seen what Banner did after the Hulk destroyed Harlem.”

“I heard that,” Banner’s voice announced from somewhere behind them, measured but still sharp. 

“That’s cuz you’re eavesdropping,” Barton returned smoothly. “Why don’t you man up and give us your profound thoughts on this topic?”

Banner didn’t answer immediately, but a couple seconds later Spidey heard the soft shuffle of his approach. “There’s nothing profound about it. The simple truth is that we’re just people. Fallible, and sometimes even weak, cuz that’s what it means to be human and imperfect.”

Spidey pulled back his hands and rotated just enough to watch the physicist peripherally, indicating his attention. “I think that you’re suffering from acute depression as a result of trauma, both psychological and physiological. Depression has a well documented association with distorted negative thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve made other decisions during these last weeks that might objectively seem out of character.”

“If by decisions you mean get fired from work and take medical leave from school,” Spidey bemoaned quietly, breathing meticulously to stave off the panic and tears. His life was Fucked and it was all his fault! Octavius had possessed him, but it was Peter who’d tanked everything in his life afterwards, including the most passionate relationship of his life! How could he have been so cruel to Wade? Wade, who could take any physical blow, and yet was so fragile in other ways. Wade, who could survive any assault except an emotional one. 

Banner placed a warm hand on his shoulder, and Spidey was surprised to actually find comfort in it. “You’re only a human animal, Peter. Like a lot of animals, we tend to act out after traumatic experiences. . . I know I did.” 

“And I,” Barton agreed, and Spiderman did feel a slight breeze of appreciation for their solidarity. 

“Just keep that in mind when we come across El Diablo Del Fuego,” Banner advised soberly. “I’ve been that animal too.”

Spidey swallowed, then nervously admitted, “He’s probably gonna try to kill me. But you guys need to let him try. It’s the only opening I’ll get, and I’m sure it’ll get ugly before I get through to him. I have to trust you two to be the last option, and to not interfere until I have well and truly failed.”

“That’s a lot to ask of us,” Banner commented with a thoughtful frown. “But you know I won’t bring the Other Guy into this unless I have to.”

“I’m counting on it. I’m willing to risk my life to keep him out of the Negative Zone,” Spidery replied without thinking, only to realize that it was one hundred percent true. He still loved Wade, and even if Wade wasn’t going to be part of his life anymore, Peter wouldn’t be able to live with himself, knowing that he was rotting away in some other dimension. 

“I’m all for trial by fire. Just keep in mind that he’d never forgive himself if he killed you,” Barton warned sharply. “None of us would.”

“It won’t come to that,” Spiderman assured. Of course, he’d feel more confident in his abilities if he hadn’t spent the last two weeks wasting away, but there was nothing for it now. “Do we have anything to eat?”

! ^_^ ! 

Trial by fire indeed. Rainforest fires burn slow and dirty, due to the wet foliage, and it was easy to see the smoke from the sky. As the Quinjet got closer, the ground damage was also obvious. Spiderman insisted they land as soon as gunshots were detected, so he could make his approach by web, alone. The place was hellish, as a first impression. Already hot and humid, thick smoke had made the air oppressive and almost too heavy to breathe. Everything smelled like burnt foliage, and cooked meat, and guano. It was no surprise to come upon El Diablo Del Fuego in a clearing, spraying fire from his flamethrower and cackling like a completely deranged king of the hill. He appeared to be trying to burn down trees more than the small FARC outpost, all the rebels having either fled or died. There was certainly no shortage of corpses littering the ground. 

Spiderman swung down from his perch and jogged out into the clearing, steering around and jumping over a couple bodies. “Hey, Deadpool!” he hollered to get the man’s attention. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?!”

Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the way the leather clad head snapped in the direction of his voice. A second later Deadpool was marching his way through the fire and smoke, straight as the goddamn Terminator, flamethrower held ready at his side. Spidey watched his rapid approach, pulse picking up and muscles coiling in preparation of their confrontation. In his red combat suit, sporting numerous burns and covered in soot, he looked more like a demon than a machine.

“Hey, Spidey!” Deadpool echoed loudly, mockingly, close enough now that yelling was completely unnecessary. His voice, however, sounded hoarse and more gravely than usual – because of the smoke? Or maybe just from too much crazed screaming. “♪♬ Fire meet gasoline! I’m burning alive! ♪♬” 

Peter recognized the lyrics even as he hit the ground, then rolled away from the stream of fire that shot above him. Wade was a massive Sia fan (especially the way she always hid her face), and Peter had already been treated to this particular “love song” twice before, though both times in a passionate, sexual context. Now it sounded more dangerous and destructive.

“Hear me out, PLEASE. I don’t want to fight,” Spiderman appealed, scrambling to his feet and crouching, ready to leap into the trees if needed. “You’re stronger than this, Wade.”

But the crazed man before him actually roared angrily in response, “RRRWUUUHRRR! You don’t get to fucking call me that anymore, you treacherous traitor you! I am DRAGONPOOL!”

Just as another rope of fire seared through the air, Spiderman bounded into the nearest tree, quickly scampering up almost thirty feet to hide in the thicker, less burnt foliage. Shit! As if the flamethrower wasn’t bad enough, Wade must be really off his rocker if he’s actually roaring and calling himself Dragonpool. “Can we just put our weapons down for a minute and talk?”

Deadpool unclipped the bulky flamethrower, so that it fell heavily to the ground, and if Peter felt a foolish spark of hope, it was immediately dashed as the madman started climbing the tree. There were grooves and vines to grip onto, but mostly it was an impressive display of raw strength and physical prowess. Spiderman crouched on a long, thick branch, watching and waiting for him. As he got closer, Spidey could see (and smell) just how dirty and damaged Deadpool’s suit was. Underneath the soot and soil, blood flaked from around the innumerable bullet holes that littered the entire suit, including the hood. Patches of filthy flesh were briefly visible through the tattered leather. 

Then, with a loud grunt of effort, Deadpool hauled his weight up to Spidey’s branch and straddled it, breathing heavily. 

“You look like a cheese grater, Dragonpool,” Spidey prodded, saying the name sarcastically and hoping to get a real response. “How many times have you died in that thing?” 

“Lost count,” Deadpool rasped, then grabbed Big Boi II from his thigh holster. 

Spidey promptly dropped around to hang from the underside of the branch. “I thought you were gonna run me through for what I did to you. More intimate and all that.”

Deadpool peered around the branch, craning his neck and angling his gun awkwardly as he tried to find a good angle. “That was Yellow’s fantasy. But since he’s gone silent, I pretty much do whatever I want. ”

Deadpool shot off a couple rounds, but they were impossible shots and Spidey used his webs to swing to the far side of the tree, positioning himself so that the wide trunk provided temporary cover. Peter had experienced enough of Wade’s meltdowns to realize how key one or both of the boxes were to the crises at hand; the boxes’ behavior often mirrored Deadpool’s greater psychological dysfunction. “What happened to Yellow?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deadpool growled as he holstered his handgun and got to his feat, balancing on his branch. Then he made his way, quickly but cautiously, towards the trunk. “Coward just gave up and disappeared on us, guess things got too fucking hard. Sound familiar?” 

“I’m so, so sorry. No matter how bad I was feeling, I shouldn’t’ve broken up with you that way,” Spidey conceded, wishing they could have this conversation for real. He had so much to say, so much more than, “It was a dick move.”

“A DICK MOVE?!” Deadpool sprinted the rest of the way down the branch, then leapfrogged carelessly across a couple other branches before landing in front of Spiderman. He reached for both thigh holsters this time, and Spidey was about to swing away when Deadpool froze, head tilted to the side tellingly and hands hovering over the gun handles. Then he shifted back a step and hissed, “Yellow was right though, you should be run through for what you’ve done. A bullet through the head is too clean, better you suffer for hours as your intestines slowly ooze out of your abdomen.”

“Sounds like a fitting punishment, but you’ll have to catch me first.”

“That is the challenge with bugs, isn’t it?” Deadpool agreed nastily. “So I’ll make you a deal.”

Spidey figured any talking was progress at this point, so he prompted, “I’m listening.” 

“I won’t use my guns if you stay on the ground.”

He didn’t even have to think about it, Spidey would take any opening. “Deal. But only if you throw them away first.”

“Fine.” Deadpool made a show of clearing the chamber in each gun before tossing them away. “Plenty more where they came from.”

They eyed each other through their masks for a loaded moment, then Spiderman turned and jumped, arm already reaching to throw a web, and seconds later he swung gracefully to the ground. Deadpool did more of a controlled fall out of the tree, landing on his side with a loud THUMP! “Son of a bitch!” 

Spidey knew better than to approach, so he made his case quickly, “I still love you, Wade. I’m sorry I pushed you away when we both needed each other the most. I was, am, guilty and suffering, and just wanted to be alone. I never meant to hurt you, even though it seems like all I do lately.”

“Talk is cheap, Spidey!” Deadpool spat, already rising to his feet. A moment later he charged, swords first. 

Spiderman leapt out of the way, followed by a spin to the left, and then had to cartwheel away as Deadpool kept up his deadly, high speed assault. Shit! That last slash had come awfully close to disemboweling him. Spidey skittered backwards fast enough to at least get out a few words, “Please. You’re better than this mindless killing. You fight against this part of yourself, remember?”

“And you fight dirty, just like a overfucked pussy,” Pool bitched, pinwheeling his katanas for a couple seconds before suddenly leaping towards Spidery, driving him farther back to avoid being impaled. One of Deadpool’s greatest strengths as a fighter (other than his immortality, obviously) was his unpredictability. The man had literally no tells and certainly no commitment to any particular fighting style. 

Spiderman dodged several more creative attempts on his life, but neither of them were at their physical peaks and it showed. After one lunge left Deadpool overbalanced, Spidey managed to throw him to the ground, immediately taking the opportunity to kick the swords away. However, he wasn’t fast enough to get away unscathed, as Pool swept his legs and pulled the smaller man down on top of himself. Then they grappled and wrestled desperately, trading quick fire punches and breathless insults.

“You’re awfully heavy for – ungh! – a fat-ass hallucination,” Deadpool grunted angrily between clenched teeth. 

“’M not a hallucination – oof! – you nutjob!” Spidey clarified, narrowly avoiding the blunt, gloved fingers aimed at his eyes.

But this hand-to-hand fighting was even more physically demanding than their earlier exchange, and Spidey’s diminished strength drained quickly. It was hard to defend, and even harder to attack when his body yearned to submit to his wronged lover, to pay penance for his crimes, to die if necessary to appease the boundless guilt. He was clearly running out of chances to get through to his deranged ex.

Finally Deadpool slammed him on his back, deftly crawling up to sit astride Spidey’s chest, thighs spread with each knee pinning down an arm. He could barely move, let alone struggle and it was a terrifying position to be in, even more so when Pool bent forward to growl in Spidey’s face, “You fucking dumped us! You shit-licking coward! You cunt-faced traitor! We never believed ANYONE would stay! How dare you make us believe that second rate, romcom bullshit! Then you fucking abandoned us the second things got ugly! You should have a higher tolerance for fucking hideous by now!”

Then he ripped off Spiderman’s mask, just as he reached back and pulled a relatively clean Smith & Wesson from a back holster hidden under his scabbards. Peter’s panicked thoughts raced as he realized he was about to die, how to get through to Wade, how to communicate in a way Whitey could understand. . . Words gushed from his mouth, “Hey, I know I’m about to die, but you once said I could serenade you anytime, and I know how much you like Kelly Clarkson, so – ”

Deadpool paused long enough that Peter rushed on in a weak, warbling voice, “♪♬ Maybe I was stupid, for telling you good-bye. . . Maybe I was wrong for tryin’ a pick a fight. ♪♬”

The older man loomed over Peter, menacing and unmoving like a statue, except that Peter thought he noticed a faint tremble in the gun pointed at his face. Was it working? Full of frail hope, Peter warbled on, “♪♬ I know that I got issues, but you’re pretty messed up too. . . Either way I found out I’m nothing without you. Cuz we belong together now ♪♬,” then he mangled the next line cuz he didn’t really know the words.

Pool had started nodding to the tune, only for his head to suddenly loll backwards as he belted out with moderate skill and great enthusiasm, “♪♬ You got a pieeece of meee, and honestly, my life (my life) would suck (would suck) without you! ♪♬”

“It’s just like the song says, Whitey. My life sucks without you,” Peter confessed, smiling widely, full of heartfelt hope at the other’s display. Peter did love to watch the Pool Show; whether he was trying to bed him or kill him, he was always fantastic to behold. Deadpool tilted his head back down to return Peter’s gaze, and for a long moment they just studied each other, before Peter finally risked further words, hoping so hard it hurt, “Please come back to me. We can get past all this, I know it. I love you, even if I’m too lost to realize it sometimes.”

Deadpool sagged slightly at his words, and Peter’s heart fluttered as he thought for a couple seconds that it was working. Only then, Pool’s head twitched sideways and he spluttered manically, “Oh shut up! You don’t get to fuck off like that and then just come back NOW!”

It was obvious a moment later that he was talking to himself, cuz Dragonpool reared his crazy head and snarled, pushing the gun roughly against Peter’s forehead. “YOU can shut the fuck up too, Spidey! Enough of your worthless lies! I don’t need you, or your conditional love, or your hypocritical fucking forgiveness!” His manic voice dripped with disgust before escalating to a crowing cry to the skies, “I’mma goddamn dragon! I breathe fire and I’ll burn the world to ashes! Until everything’s as burnt and monstrous as ME!”

Peter swallowed fearfully, body trembling under Pool’s crushing weight, but the words came easily for once, “No! Just. . . no. You’re not a dragon or a monster, or, or anything but human. And as a wise man recently told me, we humans make mistakes, and we act out when we’re hurt. My love and forgiveness are not lies and are not conditional. I love you, no matter what.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Deadpool threatened, then dragged the barrel down Peter’s face, scraping across his nose and it prodded painfully at Peter’s lips. “Now open before I kill you right this second.”

“Oxygen,” Peter choked out even as the barrel pushed into his mouth. It tasked like metal and ash and death, and terror had him gagging and shaking; but he was still pinned, and now Pool’s free hand was wrapping around his neck, so that his whole upper body was completely immobilized.

Deadpool glared hatefully at him and hissed, “Oh, did you think this was a scene? A game where you can call time out?” 

Then he eased the gun out of Peter’s mouth, only to glide back in a moment later, as horrified tears gathered in the corners of Peter’s eyes. Deadpool dipped the barrel back through Peter’s lips, establishing a slow fellating movement that clearly captivated him, even as he tilted his head to the side to listen to one or both boxes. The tears spilled down the sides of Peter’s face, and he whimpered wetly in miserable terror, while Deadpool stared, frozen and hypnotized by the deadly weapon sliding into and out of Peter.

Some unknown cue prompted Deadpool to suddenly reanimate, and he inhaled sharply before focusing intensely on their exchange. “Did you know that Whitey’s always wanted to sodomize you with a gun barrel? He fantasizes about pushing that deadly weapon into your slutty hole, slide catching on your rim, releasing the safety to make you cry in terror just like you are now. . . Do you think I should let him?” Deadpool ground his filling prick into Peter’s chest as he bent over again, to whisper tauntingly in Peter’s ear, “He doesn’t remember the glass bottle, Peter. But maybe I should remind him? He’s not above taking a good suggestion.”

Peter was sobbing freely now, snot flowing out of his nose and saliva from his mouth, and he keened brokenly in despair. It wasn’t fair, Yellow was supposed to be on his side of this insanity! If waking Yellow didn’t bring Wade back, then Peter was completely out of ideas. He’d failed for the final time, failed himself and Wade. “Pwease,” he mumbled around the abhorrent, threatening metal on his tongue. “Jus’ puw the t’iggah. End dis nigh’mare.”

Deadpool leaned back slowly, taking in Peter’s defeat for long seconds. Finally he sighed and withdrew the gun from between Peter’s lips, “We don’t really want to kill you, whatever Whitey thinks.”

He looked up at the sky as he nestled the barrel under his own chin instead. 

“Do you think this time it’ll take?” he wondered, sounding lost but hopeful. Then he squeezed the trigger and – BANG! – blew his brains out. 

Blood and gore sprayed everywhere, and Pool’s heavy body collapsed on top of Peter’s, who was only granted a moment of shock before he had to roll out from under Wade’s weight and throw up the remains of his last meal. Blood dripped off Peter, just as brain matter and shards of skull fell to the ground, mixing with the acidic vomit and causing Peter to gag and heave again. Finally, he crawled just out of the splatter radius and collapsed on the ground. He closed his eyes tightly and focused on his breathing (which he could barely hear due to his now ringing eardrums), just gathering his strength for a moment. He’d gone mostly numb again, but figured that it was probably for the best. 

After a few minutes, Peter rose and retrieved his mask, then finally turned to the dead body, purposely not looking at the shattered skull. He grabbed the two katanas and sorta hooked them haphazardly through Pool’s belt. Then with an exhausted, frustrated sigh, he grabbed Deadpool’s foot and started hauling his dead weight towards the Quinjet, making no effort to avoid dragging him over rocks, sticks, or anything else. 

Spidey couldn’t help venting, “You’re lucky I’m sweet on you, Wade, cuz you tried to fucking kill me! You’re such a crazy asshole! You went all Full Metal Jacket on me! Worse, you went Hot Shots, Part fucking DEUX, on FARC! Which, you’d think was funny if you hadn’t blown your damn brains out. . . So now I’m stuck dragging your dead, unhinged ass through this hot-as-Hell rainforest! All because of a bad breakup! God, you really bring a whole new definition to the term psycho ex. You better wake up in your right mind, cuz I’m out of ideas, and you’re this close to being shipped off to the Negative Zone for good. . .”

Spidey kept ranting until the Quinjet came into view, and then Banner and Barton jogged out to help him carry Deadpool inside. “Hey, guys. Meet Dragonpool. Tried to kill me, almost succeeded, then offed himself instead.”

“Wasn’t that basically the plan?” Barton snarked darkly, though he was half right. “Good going, I guess.”

Ever the focused one, Banner just asked, “What’d you want to do with him?” 

Still not looking at Wade or his crushed skull, Spidey waved towards the medical section of the jet. “Just cuff his arms to the gurney. I’ll sit with him til he wakes up. It’s not my first rodeo, unfortunately.”

“We probably shouldn’t take off until we’re aware of the situation,” Banner warned. “I can tell you from experience, no one wants a fight to break out at 40,000 ft.” 

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple hours,” Spiderman assured grimly. “He’s come back from a lot worse than this.”

As if any of them could forget the time Deadpool had blown himself, and the underground HYDRA lab, to itty bitty smithereens. Peter’d had to pick up the pieces then too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Potentially disturbing sexualized violence. Graphic suicide.  
> THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS! Keep 'em coming!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rare chapter with no warnings.

Wade’s entire body ached, but especially his head, a unique and easily recognized agony that scraped along his nerves and left everything tender and hollow and starving. The familiar feeling came from overexerting his healing factor without sufficient opportunity to recuperate, like when he suffered numerous consecutive deaths, or maybe just a few high-damage ones. The healing process tended to get less thorough as energy and material reserves ran out, and usually waking up in such a state was a bad omen of things to come – often more death and suffering. So the gentle caress that trickled down his bare scalp was both unexpected and profoundly welcome. Wade didn’t even open his eyes, or think much at all, he just nuzzled closer into the soothing sensation, trying to stay under just a little bit longer. 

“Hey, babe. You awake?” Peter’s voice asked gently, before pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Uhn-hun,” Wade hummed, and he felt happy and comfortable enough to risk opening his eyes a crack. Peter’s tired face was smeared with blood, dirt, and ash, but he was gazing at him kindly, with love and concern, and Wade’s lips stretched into a smile on their own volition. “Pe’er.”

Peter offered a sad half-smile in return. “How you feelin’?”

“Like I’ve died too many times this week,” Wade answered fuzzily, yawning at the end. 

Then he tried to move his hands and realized that his wrists were strapped down – which woke him up immediately. He jerked instinctively against the cuffs, panic and distress flaring as he realized that he was unmasked and restrained in what appeared to be a fuselage. “What the fuck’s going on?!”

Peter took a couple wary steps back, wearing an unhappy grimace. “What do you remember?”

Wade held himself still, prodding his aching head to offer something up. After a long, stubborn pause, Yellow finally cleared his mental voice and then summarized as quickly as humanly possible, as an auctioneer would, [[Peter dumped us. I checked out so I didn’t have to be party to you going postal. You went on a bloody rampage, slaughtering a good chunk of FARC like a complete psycho, only to try un-aliving Peter when he came to save us from ourselves. I showed up just in time to redirect our violent impulses towards a more deserving target. Unfortunately, death didn’t take this time either.]] 

[That was a fucking riot! Dragonpool 4ever bitches!]

Wade was absolutely horrified at himself, and for a second he tried to deny reality. It was simply too much to process, too much to swallow while under Peter’s burning scrutiny; and yet his naked features contorted in grief and misery and shame, for they would not be denied. Wade tried to brace for the emotional assault, tried to cover his bared face, to hide his pain and his raw ugliness, but his hands remained cuffed to the gurney and turning his head protected practically nothing. He didn’t want Peter to see him like this, but he had no choice, and that only made it hurt more. Wade closed his eyes tight against tears that forced their way out anyway, and he tried to bite back his sobs, but only succeeded in transforming them into the choked whining of an injured dog. His whole body strained away from Peter, for all the good it did. 

After a few seconds Peter said something that Wade didn’t catch, but then he moved closer and tapped in a code to unlock one of the cuffs. Wade immediately curled away from him, around the other restraint, using his free arm to cover his hideous face and head. The psychological relief provided by this meager defense eased the grip of humiliation and terror, allowing Wade to more fully drown in the grief and misery, and in the soul-crushing disappointment in himself. His tears came easier then, his body shaking more naturally, and his wet sounds emerging more human. 

Peter moved around to the other side of the gurney, then took a gentle hold of Wade’s restrained hand, releasing that cuff a couple seconds later. Wade weakly tried to push him away, one handed, but Peter just shuffled right up to the gurney and wrapped an arm around Wade’s shoulders, awkwardly pulling him closer. After a moment of half-hearted resistance, Wade gave in and wrapped his arms tightly around Peter’s body, burrowing and hiding his face more effectively in Peter’s soft, warm abdomen. As much as he wanted to curl up and die, or just disappear, in the absence of those options, Peter’s comfort was too tempting to refuse. 

“You left me!” Wade wailed pathetically into Peter’s body, followed by painful, gasping sobs. “Y-you weren’t sup-posed to l-leave me!”

“I know,” Peter admitted softly, stroking down the back of Wade’s exposed skull and neck. They remained like that for maybe a minute before Peter interrupted Wade’s jagged crying to ask, “Do you remember anything else?”

It barely seemed possible, but Wade sobbed harder, his throat seizing and stomach cramping. “Y-you left and. . . I t-turned into a r-raging psycho. Again! Againagainagain. . .”

[[So basically, our two worst fears came to pass, one begetting the other. Thank you, Parker. In an ideal world, we’d take responsibility for ourselves, obviously, but come the fuck on! There’s a reason they describe it as “not guilty by reason of insanity”! Whitey’s a brainless dickweed and even he coulda predicted this!]]

[Hey! You abandoned us just as fast as Spidey did, so none of your high-and-mighty crappola! I think we did pretty well without you. I got us to Colombia, didn’t I? We didn’t rampage through ol’ NYC, did we?]

[[You tried to kill Peter! You demented, deranged, terminally damaged, shit-for-brains schizo!]]

By focusing on the bickering boxes, Wade was able reign in his ugly crying fit, but all that was left behind was a seemingly bottomless, endless desolation. 

“I jus’ wan’ it to end,” Wade moaned into the now soaking splotch in the middle of Peter’s costume. He’d never had any faith in a greater power, but it didn’t stop him from begging in the manner of those with no other hope, “Oh, God, please. . . Won’t you just let me die?”

[♪♬ Dear Lord, you take so many of my people. I’m just wondering why you haven’t taken my life. Like what the Hell am I doing right? ♪♬]

“Shhh, don’t say that,” Peter hushed gently, sniffling like maybe his waterworks had started up as well.

Then Peter was trying to manhandle Wade’s curled body backwards on the gurney, but without the larger man’s help, he didn’t get very far. A moment later he was climbing onto the gurney, apparently determined to join Wade even if it meant straddling his hips and laying mostly on top of him. Wade groaned his weak complaint, still trying to cover his tortured expression, though he mostly gave up when Peter pressed his own face into Wade’s neck. “I don’t want you to die. My life would suck without you.” 

Wade half-laughed, half-cried, an abomination of humor and hurt that faded quickly into beaten whimpers, before even those trailed off. He brought his arms back up, one to circle Peter’s waist and the other to gingerly palm the back of his head. “You say that, but we both know it’s not true. No one wants an invalid they have to be careful with all the time, just in case he goes postal.” 

“You’re wrong in so many ways, Wade,” Peter assured softly, pressing a kiss under Wade’s ear. “You’re not an invalid, you’re one of the toughest bastards I know. And after all the mistreatment, I think you deserve a little careful handling. In fact, we take care of each other, and I’m so sorry if I implied differently that last day at Aunt May’s. Without you, I’d still be riding shotgun in my own body.”

[[So true. A little gratitude is nice.]]

It felt so good to be close to Peter, to hear him whisper sweet nothings like they were still lovers, like the last month hadn’t ruined everything. And Wade was so tired, his bones and head and nerves ached from the strain of regeneration, while his mental and emotional reserves were equally depleted. He was kinda starving, but not enough to move. 

“Am I safe to sleep here?” Wade asked, almost childlike, as though he wasn’t close to passing out regardless of any safety issues. “I don’t want to die again. . . Not if I have to come back.” 

Peter’s arms squeezed him briefly, but firmly. “Sleep. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

! ^_^ !

When Wade next woke, he was alone on the gurney, and unrestrained; he felt physically better, if still weak and now exceedingly hungry. Sitting up, he noticed first that it was nighttime, and next that the plane was vibrating slightly, indicating that they were in the air. Finally, he noticed Banner watching him from just a few feet away, sitting as calm and still as Buddha himself. Wade twitched and reached up reflexively for his mask, though he sorta knew that his face was bare. A moment later, Banner stood and moved closer, picking up a piece of fabric from the nearest medical tray. 

“Here, Peter brought it for you. The one you were wearing was unsalvageable.”

Wade grabbed the soft hood and pulled it on, immediately feeling better, if still wary. “Thanks.”

“How’re you feeling?” Banner asked, clearly interested in the answer but also making his own assessment.

[Fucking famished. I could literally eat a whole Hulk right now. You know, if he was smothered in barbeque sauce.]

“Starving.” Actually, he felt so hungry that his stomach actually hurt and he wrapped his arms around his abdomen. Where was Peter?

“I’ll get you some food in a moment. What I mean is, do you feel in control of yourself?”

[[We’re surfing the Great Sea of Crazy, brah, just riding the waves til the next big wave wipes us out. Control is an illusion. If anyone should get that, it’s you.]]

Deadpool shrugged. “As much as ever. I’m not gonna start shooting the place up, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Good to hear.” 

Banner moved away towards the front of the fuselage, to what looked like a small galley. Peering after him, Wade caught sight of Spidey’s feet hanging off the end of a row of chairs, where he was presumably sleeping. His anxiety faded, and when Banner returned with a MRE packet and a bottle of water, he tore into both greedily, almost feeling like his “normal” self. When you’re Deadpool, rolling with punches (as well as the stabs, shots, and explosions) is really the only option; true immortals have no choice but to bounce back. 

[[Forever and ever and ever. De Nile ain’t just a river in Egypt.]]

[Enough of the fortune cookie bullshit. Ugh. . . I want some fucking chimichangas. Like, right now. This shit tastes like three day old nachos.]

As if reading his mind, Banner spoke, “There’s a slightly better meal in the microwave, when you’re done with that. Though you might want to get cleaned up first.”

Wade looked down at his combat suit, or what was left of it at least. The tears and bullet holes were so numerous that it was doing a shit job of hiding his mutilated skin. He was less concerned with the fact that it was disgustingly filthy and consequently reeked of blood, sweat, and smoke. 

[[Still, it might behoove us to look like less of a psychopath before the inevitable Avengers tribunal.]]

“You got a shower on this boat?” Pool asked skeptically. 

Banner shook his head with a wry half-smirk. “There’s that sink behind you. Hand towels and some scrubs in the cabinet next to it.” 

Pool shrugged. “French whore bath it is.”

Banner turned back to the galley, giving the other man some semblance of privacy. Peter must’ve cleaned his face while he regenerating, so he was able to keep his mask on as he quickly stripped out of his combat leathers. He’d been wearing it for over a week now, killing and dying and burning in it, and it was both a biohazard and completely unsalvageable. Underneath, his skin was worse than usual, where the stiff leather had rubbed numerous sores and blisters in sensitive places. He looked like something from a horror movie, a hideous creature that made children cry and run away in fear.

[Run, you little bastards! Cthulhu is here!]

[[Sigh. . . At least our outsides match our insides. What you see is what you get.]]

Deadpool went through nine hand towels before he figured he was clean enough to at least meet his own meager standards. After all that time marinating in grime, the light scrubs felt divine on his itchy, achy skin. He didn’t particularly like having his forearms exposed, but figured Banner had seen worse. He’d already seen his face after all. Finally, he made his way to the front of the plane, bypassing the food on the table to check in on Peter. The younger man was wearing his dirty costume, sans hood, looking worn and exhausted where he lay across the seats. 

“Look what we did,” Pool muttered morosely to himself. 

Barton must’ve had his hearing aids turned way up, cuz he turned around from the cockpit to reply, “Believe me, he did most of that to himself. If anything, he looks better than he did a couple days ago, when I had to pry him out of bed to come get you. I’m no shrink, but I think the depression might’ve been feeding off his life force or something. Dark Crystal style.” 

[No! Not the Skeksis!]

“Thanks for that imagery, Pigeoneye. It’s not like that movie gave my whole generation nightmares or anything.”

Barton just shrugged and turned back around. Deadpool reluctantly left Peter in favor of more food, even if that meant sitting across from Banner. The good physicist had laid out a feast that included two microwave dinners (ravioli and chicken with veggies), a hefty sandwich, a large bag of trail mix, an apple, and a party bag of potato chips. 

[Get in my BELLY!!!]

“Marry me, Banner. Be my Hulkwife,” Deadpool declared as he sat down across from Dr. Jekyll himself, hungry eyes never leaving the spread. He rolled his mask up to just under his nose, but didn’t bother to hide his mouth as he went to town. Banner, bless the man, gave him several minutes to shovel food into his mouth before attempting conversation. 

“SHIELD was all set to take you to the Negative Zone, you know. If Peter hadn’t come for you, that’s where you’d be headed now.”

Deadpool’s enthusiastic chewing slowed, before he finally swallowed and paused his consumption. “He’ll always be a hero, one of the best, no matter how depressed. Of course he wants to save me, even from myself. Even when I can’t be saved.”

Banner gave him a look like he was an idiot. “Whatever happened between you two, he still loves you. That’s why he went after you.”

Deadpool dropped his eyes to the table. “If that’s true even after fucking Dragonpool tried to kill him, then he maybe he should go see a shrink.”

[[Hahaha! DRAGONPOOL! Even our Crazy is stupid! We’re never gonna live that one down, you know that right? We’re like a living punchline.]]

“He probably should,” Banner conceded without actually agreeing. “But not for caring about you. You understand that depression is a real condition, right? That the conclusions he draws and decisions he makes in that state are not necessarily ones he’d draw or make under normal circumstances?”

Deadpool gave a wimpy one-shouldered shrug. While he could understand what Banner was saying intellectually, it was too far divorced from his emotional interpretation of the situation. “If that’s true, then we’re both cracked.”

Banner demonstrated a true shrug, languid and confident, before delivering his line, “It seems only fair.”

[[Profound. And also: a burn.]]

[♪♬ Smooth criminal! ♪♬] 

Deadpool wasn’t sure precisely why, but he was suddenly sure that Banner was a genius, not just technically, but fucking actually. Plus, he had a Real monster inside him, so maybe he had the answer to their relatively unique problem. He leaned over the table and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Yeah, but I obviously can’t be trusted not to lose it and go fucking psycho. So who’s supposed take . . . you know, responsibility?”

The last word was spoken so softly, yet conspicuously that Banner had to clarify, “Responsibility? For what? Your sanity?” 

[Hey, big guy. . . YOU TALKIN’ TO ME?!]

Deadpool didn’t like the hint of teasing in his tone, it agitated him. “No! For the stupid fucking relationship! I’d never be able to take a leadership role, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing! And I basically make bad decisions twenty four seven. If Peter hadn’t kept me in check, I’d’ve ruined any chance of happiness we had together a million times over! Guaranteed!” 

Then Deadpool slammed his forehead down on the table with a loud THUNK! “Ooow…”

He didn’t move as Banner considered him for a long, heavy moment, never more grateful for his mask. Finally, the good doctor gave a rusty sigh and pulled out some of that ol’ back pocket wisdom, “If you two choose to continue your romantic relationship, then you’re gonna have to figure out how to make it work together, just like everyone else. No one can take full responsibility for a relationship, Wade. Like I told Peter yesterday, everyone makes mistakes. And it’s too much pressure to expect otherwise.” 

“Nice answer,” Barton hollered from the cockpit, definitely too far to be listening through his hearing aids. Banner briefly eyed his surroundings, as though the whole Quinjet wasn’t a Stark baby. Anything and everything could be capable of recording and transmitting your every sound and movement. 

[[If we had more than shit for brains, we’d have considered this possibility. This is how mortal assassins survive, and we’re basically in the Avenger’s custody right now.]]

“I fucking hate assassins! Sneaky bunch of dickless pussies!” Deadpool bellowed back, which only earned him loud laughter. He and Barton got along, but did the archer really have to witness so much of this most recent humiliating crash & burn™? It would’ve been nice if they could’ve kept getting along.

All the yelling woke Peter, of course, who sat up and immediately located Pool. Now that they were both ostensibly in their right minds, it was overwhelmingly and cripplingly awkward to see Peter awake like that, so suddenly and completely. Shame, fear, anger, hurt, and love came in quick succession, making him painfully aware of an audience that knew him so intimately that he was practically naked. How does one apologize for being a monster? Or more specifically, just for having had to behold his monstrosity? The shame circled back, even worse than before, and he couldn’t just pretend that nothing had happened. 

Reluctantly, he pulled off his hood, and he forced himself to keep his head up, though he couldn’t bring his eyes to meet anyone else’s. “I’d, uh, like to say something.”

“Go ahead,” Peter encouraged, while Banner appeared to nod in Wade’s peripheral vision. 

“You know that movie, the Last Unicorn?,” Wade began nervously, already ramping up. “I totally loved that movie as a kid! know, I know, I’m no unicorn, and what asshat would even make that comparison? Obviously, I’m more like the Harpy, who is immortal too, but, um, a hideous man-eater. . . ”

[But I don’t wanna be the Harpy! I wanna be a magical sparkly unicorn!]

[[HEY, JACKASSES! Pay attention and stay on topic!]]

“Right, of course. Anyway, at the end of the movie, the unicorn says, “No unicorn was ever born who could regret, but now I do. I regret.”” Wade paused for a moment, just long enough to briefly take in the confused expressions of his audience. Apparently that wasn’t quite enough to get his message across. “What I mean to say is that, even though I’m, like, a total psycho – ”

“Wade – ” Peter tried to interrupt as he got to his feet.

But Wade needed to say the words, and hurried on, “I do regret the things we, uh, I’ve done when I’m like that. I may not act like it, but I do feel remorse. And shame. I’m not, you know, a complete monster all the time. . .” He’d never be comfortable apologizing, he had too much to apologize for, it felt like a gut full of soul-devouring parasites. Still, this time he would force out the words, however meekly and pathetically they emerged, “I am sorry for being like this, and I’m really sorry that you all had to deal with it.”

[Ugh! Stab me! It hurts! I’m melting, MELTING!]

[[Shut it, Wicked Witch. It’s supposed to fucking hurt.]]

Then Peter was in front of him, gathering him into a rough embrace as though he could physically hold Wade’s pieces together; and Wade did appreciate the comfort, it helped ease the ropes around his chest and the rock in his throat. He took a moment to rub his face into Peter’s hair, uncaring of the sweaty, smoky smell. 

“It’s, uh, not ONE HUNDREND percent your fault,” Barton threw out there after a conspicuous pause. 

[Thank you! Plot twist!]

Then Peter drew away, so that he, Banner, and Wade could all frown at the archer; they were all too familiar with secrets not to recognize the opening to a Big Reveal. Barton had apparently placed the Quinjet on autopilot, as he’d emerged from the cockpit and was standing awkwardly between the rows of passenger seats. 

“What are you talking about?” Peter ventured warily, as Wade tugged his mask back on and braced himself.

Barton cleared his throat uneasily. “Don’t shoot the messenger, cuz Natasha just debriefed me a couple hours ago when I called in with the sitrep. . . But, uh, apparently Fury sent you to Colombia.”

“What?!” Peter hissed angrily, while Banner just closed his eyes and apparently tried to breathe deeply and evenly. 

Deadpool, meanwhile, tried to match the words to his haphazard memories of that time. He had a vague recollection of yelling semi-coherently into his phone, demanding a job from some old contacts, but he hadn’t a fucking clue how he’d gotten from New York City to South America. The thought of what he might be missing was unsettling, and his entire body twitched. “You’re gonna have to explain better than that, cuz the ol’ garbage disposal ain’t coughing up shit.” 

Barton sighed unhappily. “SHIELD monitors all your calls, Deadpool. Doesn’t matter that you use a burner phone, their voice recognition software can identify you as soon as you open your mouth.” 

“I REALLY fucking hate assassins!” he spat again, though this time no one laughed. “So what? Fury heard I was looking and contracted me to take out FARC, with a bonus for burning down the fucking Amazon?!”

“More like he had a tac team tranq you and keep you sedated during transport,” Barton explained grimly. “Then he released you on the bad guys.”

[[Of course he did. That’s how you treat rabid animals.]]

Deadpool twitched more violently than before, feeling that horrible manic energy build, demanding he do something – lash out, stab someone, shoot himself, anything. A second later he was unconsciously clawing at his bare arms, drawing blood, and once again leaving Peter to manage his distress on top of his own outrage. 

“That’s just great!” Peter shouted angrily at Barton, even as he grabbed Pool’s hands and squeezed the fingers so hard that the bones ground together painfully. “So Fury knew Wade was in crisis and thought, why don’t I use the opportunity to add to his guilt AND his body count? Why send us in to retrieve him at all then? I’m pretty sure there’s a lot more rebels to kill!” 

Banner, meanwhile, was looking a little greenish, and Deadpool knew exactly how he felt. Dr. Jekyll stood abruptly, and declared, “I’m just gonna go to the back and meditate for a few.”

[Meditate, or smoke some dagga? Sigh. . . I wish we could still get high, that would make this chatfest so much more bearable.]

[[Shut up and die already, you nutjob! Some of us actually give a fuck about being used as a mindless killing machine!]]

Banner exited stage right, while Barton waited a cautious moment to respond, looking rightfully pissed to have been put in a position of explaining Fury’s indefensible decisions. “The goal wasn’t to eliminate FARC, just to take them down a notch so Fury can set other plans in motion.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Peter snapped, shaking his head in disgust. “Fury better not try to hold Wade accountable for this! Maybe he’s the one that should be locked up in the damn Negative Zone!” 

The crushing grip on his fingers helped Deadpool stay focused, despite the agitating discussion.  
He was so grateful for Peter taking point, as he was pretty sure the only reaction he could’ve managed was to spaz out. And he’d had enough of that to last the entirety of the next decade. 

“Uh, well, now that you mention it. . .” Barton trailed off, rubbing his neck and grimacing, and Deadpool felt a spike of fear. 

[We are NOT going to the Negative Zone! I’ll jump out of this goddamn jet first!]

[[Peter wouldn’t survive the fall, asshole. Besides, it hasn’t come to that yet.]]

“He is NOT being taken to the Negative Zone. I won’t allow it!” Peter growled with so much determination and conviction that Deadpool couldn’t help but stare at him like was the holy Savior himself. This close, he could make out every freckle and fleck of dirt, each eyelash framing his narrowed eyes, the faint red flush of anger across his cheeks. No one had ever stood up for Deadpool as frequently or thoroughly as Peter, and it was both heartwarming and heartbreaking to behold. 

“It’s not that bad,” Barton tried to appease, eyes flicking from Peter to Pool. “He just wants you to remain under observation for a week, maybe work some things out with Peter. You know, convince us you’re not about to flip your shit again right away. I know Stark can be an ass, but he agreed to put you up in a swanky Tower suite for the duration, with access to all the communal areas.” 

[I’m gonna flip your fucking flightless ass out this goddamn airplane, you dickless dodo!]

“Hell to the fucking no!,” Deadpool blurted, pulling his aching fingers away from Peter so he could cross his arms defensively across his chest. Under normal circumstances, he’d be over the moon to have an invite to stay with the Avengers at the swanky Stark Tower, but he was not interested in being their lab rat or psych patient or some quarantined zoo animal. When he glanced at the silent Peter, however, he was dismayed and hurt to realize that shorter man appeared to be seriously considering the possibility. 

Barton raised an eyebrow, as he challenged compassionately, “You really think it would be good for either of you to go back to your apartment? What’re you gonna do? Hang around all the blood splatter and bullet holes, and NOT think about how you went nuts? Not to get into the other bad memories that even I have from that place, and I was only there in the aftermath. Pool, I don’t know anyone whose mental health wouldn’t deteriorate in that situation.”

[[Dodo-face might have a teensy weensy point there.]]

Deadpool didn’t think it very likely that Peter would be going anywhere with him, so that opened up his options. “Whatever. I’ve got a few safe houses. Anything would be better than being trapped as Stark’s lab rat.” 

Barton sighed, running a hand through his hair and suddenly looking both weary and no longer young. “Where? Gonna go camping in upstate New York? Or squat in the old warehouse with no electricity or running water? If I know about those places, then I guarantee SHIELD does too. Stark’s accommodations are better than a damn five star hotel, and, frankly, the Avengers are probably your best protection from Fury. They don’t like being manipulated any better than you. Which is why, whatever you might think, no one would try to turn you into a lab rat.”

“I can vouch for that,” Banner contributed loudly from the back of the plane.

Deadpool was running out of arguments, but he didn’t actually need any to stand by his gut. “It doesn’t matter,” he retorted petulantly. “I can take care of myself AND my mental health. I’ll drop off the radar if I have to. You won’t hear anything, I swear. . . At least not for, like, TWO weeks. I’ll have to take work eventually.”

[[Cuz I’m a freelance killer. Duh.]]

[Atta boy, DP.]

Then Peter changed the equation with, “What if I stayed with you?” Pool’s head snapped sideways in surprise, only to take in Peter’s worried expression. “Clint’s right, Wade. I don’t want to go back to our place. And I really don’t want you to disappear on me, that wouldn’t be good for MY mental health. Plus, I lost my job, so it’s not like I have a lot of options right now. There’s a lot of worse places than the Tower. I hate that Stark is such an ass towards you, cuz he really is a good guy most of the time.”

Deadpool’s breath came a little short, head spinning as his opinions and feelings pinwheeled and tried to rearrange themselves. “What about your aunt?” he ventured uncertainly. “She’d take care of you again.” 

“She would, but I don’t want her to. It didn’t go all that well last time. . .” Peter gave an embarrassed, one-sided smile. “I’d rather take my chances with you.”

[Is he flirting with us?]

[[Yes. The answer is almost always Yes.]]

It almost defied belief, because Yellow was correct. Peter was almost certainly suggesting some manner of return to their previous relationship, a thought that filled Deadpool with as much hope and elation as fear and anxiety. There was danger here, which would need to be considered fully later; though right now, there was no question as to his immediate agreement. He would never say no to Peter. 

Finally, Deadpool grudgingly conceded, “Trapped in Stark Tower sounds like a great name for a porno.” 

[Just picture it, Spidey and us stuck in a hedonist’s paradise for a week, with nothing to do but put on show after show for a group of smoking hot perverts.]

Peter looked a little startled, but Barton barked in laughter. “That’s the attitude.” 

! ^_^ !

So it came to pass that Spiderman and Deadpool took an all expenses paid vacation in Stark Tower. Tony Stark and Pepper Potts awaited them on the Tower’s landing pad, and they must’ve looked pretty wretched for those two to make the initial exchange as painless as they did. Exhausted and achy, Deadpool certainly felt like day old dog shit. 

Stark managed to greet them with relative tact, ignoring the obvious sore points for a more old school, “Spiderman and Deadpool. The world must be coming to an end, cuz I’m actually inviting you two Spandex queens to come stay.”

“You enjoy watching that kind of thing?” Deadpool questioned provocatively. “Sounds hot as fuck.”

“As a matter of fact. . . ” Stark trailed off with a slight frown, only to get back on topic much quicker than Pool would’ve in his shoes. “But I won’t be the one watching. JARVIS will be monitoring you for signs of significant distress. Only in that case will either I or another Avenger be notified.”

“Thanks for this,” Peter responded awkwardly, shuffling on his feet but maintaining eye contact. “It’s better than the alternatives.”

[[Traitor.]]

“No problemo. That would actually a fantastically accurate catch phrase: The Avengers, Better Than the Alternatives.”

The ever sexy Potts then seconded Stark’s invitation, welcoming them to the Tower and encouraging them to make use of the amenities, including medical and counseling staff. Appointments were set up to meet with Rogers that evening, after they had time to rest, and for a full tour the next day, then the power couple showed them to their suite. 

Stark mostly kept his snark in check, and only got pissy as he was leaving, when he insisted that Deadpool be on his best behavior while a guest at Ego Tower because, “Mental illness is one thing, being an obnoxious asshole is something else entirely.”

“You would know,” Pool sing-songed, though the melody was faded and tired. Stark gave him one last look of pity, and then followed his hot bosslady out the thick sliding doors.

The place was bigger than their apartment in Harlem had been, and infinitely cleaner and newer. It consisted of a fully stocked kitchen/dining area, two welcoming bedrooms with attached bathrooms (one had an in-ground Jacuzzi tub!), and a spacious living room equipped with a couple comfortable couches and a massive, cutting edge entertainment system. The décor was Spartan, but durable, and included several target-like pieces that seemed to conspicuously say, “Shoot at us, not the wall.” Deadpool adored it immediately. If only it wasn’t his cage. 

Once alone with Peter, finally, despite all the luxury and it being mid-morning, there was only one thing Deadpool really felt like doing.

“Baby boy, I’m gonna crash so hard,” Pool warned, but also hinted with a hopeful look at Peter. Before his most recent regeneration, he hadn’t slept in days, and nightmares were going to be a full on Bridezilla bitch. He felt too vulnerable to ask outright, but he couldn’t help craving the younger man’s comforting presence. 

“Want company?” Peter offered with a tired smile.

“Yours, always. . . ” Pool threw over his shoulder, already leading the way to one of the bedrooms – the one with the large window that spanned most of the far wall. 

[Why should the Avengers be the only ones privy to the free show?]

[[You wish, idiotard. Firstly, it’s a one-way. Secondly, few have the stomach to watch such a show.]]

Peter changed into a pair of generic boxers and a t-shirt, while the disfigured man shed his boots and hood, but paused at taking off the scrubs. Wade was half dead on his feet, but he could probably get Ol’ Reliable going if Peter was up for a lazy round of handjobs. He thought kinda wistfully that it’d be nice to feel good for again, to reconnect with Peter, and to relax before confronting the inevitable nightmares.

“Did you wanna. . . ?” he trailed off awkwardly, gesturing between them. He hadn’t had to ask about something like this in months, and it felt weird to ask now. It felt worse to see the disbelief that flashed across Peter’s features. 

[[Don’t be a stupid slut. Of course he doesn’t want that right now.]]

“No way. Just come here and let me hold you.” Peter was sitting in the middle of the mattress, pillows arranged behind him so that he was propped up against the headboard. He beckoned with open arms and looked so soft and welcoming that Wade found it easy to let the flash of hurt pass. He crawled eagerly into the bed and immediately buried his face into Peter’s warm belly. Peter pulled a comforter over him, then wrapped arms around the wide width of Wade’s shoulders.

Wade’s eyes closed as he snuggled into Peter. “You’re not tired?”

“I am, but I’m not, which I know makes no sense. I feel like I’ve been asleep for the last month, and now it’s the last thing I want. Even if my body needs rest.” One of Peter’s hands stroked down Wade’s bare scalp, then moved back up to repeat the motion. “Can I be the one to watch over you for once?” 

“Un-hmmm,” Wade agreed as he promptly dropped off. 

! ^_^ !

“Don’t, Daddy! Please, stop! Please!” His Dad was a lot bigger than him, and when he tried to pull him off Mom, he got thrown into the wall for his efforts. A conspicuous SNAP corresponded to the jagged jolt of pain in his arm. 

“Fuck! Don’t stop!” Wade begged, as Vanessa once again brought him close to the edge, only to smirk and dismount. He knew how this game went: he’d eat her out until she orgasmed again, and then fuck her again, and then repeat, until she’d had enough. Only then would he be allowed to come, and he’d be grateful for it. She was his first love, his only love, the love of his life. It was an honor to service her.

“Stop, you drunk asshole! Stop!” He was teenager now, he should be able to fight him off! Why was he still getting his face pummeled in?! His father’s fist slammed into his temple, his cheek, his jaw; Wade’s lip split and blood flooded his mouth. When his stopped yelling and trying to fight back, his father finally climbed off him, only to deliver a couple victorious kicks to the ribs. 

[[Don’t ever stop, don’t ever stop, please don’t stop]], Deadpool chanted wordlessly, masked head bent as he took it from behind, as always. Cable was pistoning into him, stretching him open to the point of pain and ramming his prostate until explosions blasted off behind his eyes. The extreme stimulation temporarily drove away the horror of his existence, even made him feel human again, with human connections to others, but it was never enough to erase the foreboding of what came next. Cable would leave him to finish himself off, cum and lube and maybe traces of blood dripping down his thighs. Later Cable would go back to mostly ignoring him, while Pool basically acted out to get his attention, always afraid that their last time had been The Last Time. 

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!” There was no point in begging when it came to Dr. Killbrew. There would be no mercy, not stopping until he deemed it time to stop. His skull was sawed open and his limbs hacked through, his bones crushed and skin flayed, organs were twisted and genitals mutilated; until he died, over and over again. It never stops, and it never ends. This has all happened before. 

“Fuck, yeah, baby boy! Don’t stop!” Peter had been riding him forever, alternating between minutes of a slow, dragging rhythm and jags of fast, punishing penetration. Peter moaned and gasped out a word or two with each deep drop, “Never, Wade! Never! I love you!”

“Please, Peter, stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Wade cried out in terror and panic as Peter forced the glass bottle into his tightly clenching rectum.

♪♬ Stop! In the name of love, before you break my heart. . . ♪♬ 

“I just need to be alone right now,” Peter explained, disappointment and frustration evident in his voice and expression. “I don’t trust you to stop me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .” The words lit up a conflagration of agony throughout, consuming Wade’s mind and body completely. 

[There’s no fucking stopping us now!!!] The dragon breathed out fire and covered the land with flames of death. Flesh and tree alike, burnt to ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE REVIEW!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Unicorn: No Chapter Warnings

As promised, Wade crashed hard and slept for almost six hours, and for Peter, it was perfect. He didn’t have to sleep, but could rest and process in peace. He was comforted by Wade’s presence, and the heavy weight of his solid body, but he was also so grateful for the silence. He needed this time to just look at the older man, to lightly pet down his scarred scalp and neck, and to get reacquainted with his feelings. He did love Wade, and this is what that felt like, before they’d got so caught up in their respective pain. Before they had both done and experienced unspeakable things. 

When the ache of loss threatened to be too much, Peter held the other man a little tighter and reminded himself that he still had Wade. He hadn’t been wrong in his fear of hurting Wade, only in his depressive fixation on it. Obviously they both hurt more apart than they did together. Peter could rationalize his change of heart by telling himself that Wade needed him, that he couldn’t just leave the other man to fall apart; but his guts knew the truth. If Peter had to emerge from the blanket of depression that muffled his tumultuous emotions, then he needed to cling like a spider to the only good one, to this amazing feeling of love right here and now. Everything else threatened pain. 

Peter eventually drifted off, only to gradually wake a couple hours later to Wade tensing in his arms and muttering something that sounded like Stop, or maybe Don’t Stop. Either way, Peter didn’t like it at all and gently shook Wade by the upper arms. Wade didn’t always react well to being woken, but letting his nightmares play out inevitably led to an escalation, and Peter couldn’t watch him suffer anymore. 

“Wade,” he whispered a couple times before the bigger man jerked awake, pulling away immediately until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Wade visibly took note of his surroundings before turning hesitantly to Peter. 

“Hey, you’re okay now. Safe. You were having a nightmare.” Peter comforted, offering his hands, palms up. 

Wade twitched, took a deep breath, then nodded and quipped weakly, “Must’ve been that or Hell. . . They were playing Diana Ross.” 

Peter had to grin. He’d seen Wade come out of some really bad nightmares, threatening to kill himself, begging Peter to hurt him. Other times he had shook off the same distress as if it was nothing, and it was a pleasant if unnerving surprise to find that the case now. “That sounds unbearable. You’re holding up well.”

The double meaning was not missed, “Guess even top notch Crazy has to recharge sometimes. Thank fuck.”

They gazed longingly at each other for several beats before Wade drew away and stood. “I guess I need a real shower. Dunno how long it’s been exactly, but it’s been a long time.”

Peter wanted to ask to join him, but he also knew that Wade preferred to shower alone, so he let him go without a word. Wade, predictably, took a long time, so Peter went out to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator full of ready-made meals. He was feeling a little queasy from overeating by the time Deadpool emerged from the room. He wore black jeans and a red long sleeve shirt, too stylish and perfectly tailored to be anything he actually owned; plus his mask of course. He looked good, not at all like the wounded man that had vanished into the bathroom.

It was Peter’s turn for a Hollywood makeover, and he took his own protracted shower, cuz of course Stark Tower had endless hot water. He felt like a whole new man in clean skin and expensive clothes, which at least made the late afternoon meeting with Steve go smoother. The man expressed his genuine concern for their recent trials, which Deadpool responded to by extensively quoting Kelly Clarkson lyrics. 

“I’ll definitely have to try some of her music,” Rogers conceded in apparent admiration, after Pool inserted a third uplifting quote. “If her songs are anything to go by, she must be as wise as she is strong and confident.” 

Peter was glad to have Pool to deflect attention from himself, it was easier to get away with just smiling and nodding. Should he be disturbed by the growing prominence of Kelly Clarkson in their relationship?

After more food, and a call to Aunt May, that evening found both of them on the couch in the living room. Towards the middle of the surreal adrenaline rush that was Mad Max: Fury Road, Pool took off his mask and cuddled closer. A few minutes later, he hesitantly tried to kiss him, brushing dry lips against the side of Peter’s closed mouth. 

Peter startled for a second, uncertain and confused and concerned. The trepidation warred with the longing for a beat, then he succumbed and allowed the contact – as long as it didn’t go too far. Wade leaned back in with adoring, desperate eyes and their lips slid together easily, wetting and massaging each other. The kissing was addictive really, all slippery and hot and tentative tongues, and their bodies made a comforting heat where they pressed together. 

They made out for almost twenty minutes before Wade’s hand crept too high, and a cold shiver ran through Peter. He wasn’t hard at all and had to excuse himself, “I’m sorry, Wade. I’m. . . not quite ready.”

Wade looked so disappointed and hurt for a moment that Peter felt like an asshole. Their passionate, creative, active sex life had always come so naturally to them, and Peter didn’t want to be the one to rob them of that. It was also unexpected and humbling to realize that apparently Wade was less sexually traumatized by their experiences than he was. The shame and deep, irrational humiliation made it hard to explain his difficulties more thoroughly. He hadn’t any right to be the reticent one.

“Can you just give me a couple days?” Peter pleaded, hating the almost whiny note of distress in his voice. To brace against the inevitable bad memories, to come to grips with having violated you, to accept that you can so easily forgive me and still desire me. He’d done embarrassingly little processing during those two depressed weeks in bed, as it had mostly been an experience in denial and repression.

Deadpool pulled his hood back on briskly and agreed with an obviously faked indifference, “Whatever you need.”

As much as Peter just wanted to shut down and leave it at that, he knew Wade was taking it as personal rejection, and he deserved better than that. So Peter struggled to communicate more, “I need you, I do. . . Would you believe that, um, I’m having some performance anxiety? I can’t think about fooling around without remembering. . .” He swallowed painfully, “What happened last time.”

By “performance anxiety” Peter meant that the thought of any kind of penetration filled him with dread and that he hadn’t had a single erection since Octavius had vacated his body. Deadpool studied him for a protracted moment, head tilted, so possibly listening to the boxes. Peter squirmed slightly under his observation, wishing he could put his own mask on, but he wasn’t prepared to be that crazy yet. Obviously they were both feeling vulnerable right now. 

Before long, Deadpool turned back towards the TV, though he looked down at his limp hands as he confessed roughly, “I wouldn’t know anything about that. My body’s too jacked up since the serum, I’ll be getting it up no matter what. We don’t call him Ol’ Reliable for nothing.”

His words could’ve sounded boastful, but they didn’t, just resigned, and Peter actually felt a little sorry for him. He was well acquainted with the perks of Pool’s vigorous libido, but was also aware of the down side. Frequent jacking off alone got old quick, and Peter had witnessed some rather desperate, unflattering behavior when Pool was trying to procure a sexual partner. Peter remembered the first time they had kissed, leading to Peter’s first intoxicating experience with anal sex. That night Deadpool had bartered kissing for fucking, and the man had admitted that he craved their coupling so bad that he could accept Peter’s disgust. Peter could only imagine how it would feel for his body to continuously demand sex, regardless of the propriety of the situation, the interest of those involved, or even his own psychological readiness. He thought it might drive him to try to hurt himself, maybe punish his traitorous body, if his prick ever got hard when his head was still so full of these razor sharp memories. 

“We’ll work through this, I promise,” Peter assured, curling sympathetically into Pool’s side. “Just have a little patience with me, please?”

“You’ve had a lot more than a little patience with me,” Pool responded, sounding hoarse but more understanding, and he hesitantly placed an arm around Peter’s thinner shoulders. “I know I come on pretty strong, but I don’t I wanna push you, Peter. You can’t make yourself want it.”

“You can’t make yourself want me” was the unspoken meaning there, and Peter’s heart ached for the other man. But there was nothing he could say that would magically fix Pool’s deep seated lack of confidence, or the way he overvalued the importance of their sex life to their romantic relationship; and he didn’t think either of them were up for a conversation on those thorny topics. So Peter just snuggled closer, and nuzzled the soft material covering Pool’s neck, and after a few seconds, they relaxed enough to finish watching Fury Road together. 

Pool didn’t make any further moves on him that night. When Peter finally figured it was time for bed, he left Pool in front of the TV, explaining that “I’d still like you to join me whenever you’re ready,” cuz Deadpool was exactly the kind of guy to think that no sex encompassed a lot more than it had to. He was a little disappointed when the other man didn’t join him shortly, but he fell asleep easily enough. His own dreams were dark and unsettled, making him toss and turn without ever really waking. Images of puppets and sex dolls merged with memories of glass and fire, flooding his body with insidious feelings of violation and helplessness. Eventually, another body draped heavily over his, creating warmth and a comforting presence that finally eased his dreams. So even though he woke up as alone as he had gone to sleep, he was pretty certain Wade had joined him for at least some of the night. 

Day Two, technically their first full day at the Tower, began properly with a tour. First Pepper Potts showed them the various communal eating areas, pointing out the two most frequently used by the Avengers, as well as the ones most likely to be unoccupied. Next she showed them a couple entertainment rooms, again noting the more popular one. Then she took them to the two workout facilities, one more traditional (if still extravagant) and one designed specifically to resist the forces of training superhumans. Romanov and Barton were sparring when they got there, though they took a short break to come say hi and exchange a few zingers with Deadpool. Peter did feel a spark of excitement as he took in the obstacle course, which was designed to be as challenging to the flyers as it was to the team’s numerous parkour enthusiasts. It was nice to feel a desire for something, like an echo of his old self, and he decided to definitely come back later. 

Next Pepper and JARVIS went over the specific security measures that applied to Deadpool, should he try to leave the Tower, try to hurt anyone, or show signs of potentially dangerous and/or severe mental instability. Peter had always liked Pepper and she certainly had balls of steel to frankly discuss such topics with someone as intimidating and unpredictable as Deadpool. 

“Sixty thousand volts to the chest, got it,” Deadpool snapped unhappily, arms crossed as if to protect himself. Then, probably just to make Pepper as uncomfortable as he surely was, he faked a couple exaggerated twitches and snarked, “Though for the record, that electroshock shit doesn’t work on my brand of crazy. Believe me, they tried. My word boxes just got BIGGER and LOUDER.”

“If it would make you feel better,” Pepper countered calmly, clearly accustomed to a higher caliber of asshole. “Ask JARVIS later on to show you the Hulk’s containment plan. It makes yours look positively symbolic.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Pool replied snottily, rubbing his greedy hands together, and Peter had to smile, if a little wistfully. Deadpool was so clearly impressed by everyone and everything at Stark Tower, and yet it was all sullied by the knowledge that he was here under duress.

When Deadpool was ready to move on, JARVIS detailed the variety of security measures that applied to different areas, which Pepper then demonstrated via a visit to Banner’s lab. The good physicist talked applied science with Peter, stimulating and lubricating his cerebral cogs, and he again felt the stirrings of interest and excitement. Of course, when their conversation went on too long, Deadpool’s snooping turned into accidentally disturbing and breaking things, and then it was time to leave. That was kinda irritating, but Banner had invited Peter back “anytime”, so he left feeling more optimistic about life than he had since Octavius had seemingly taken everything. 

After a pass through the infirmary, which they were all familiar with, Pepper lead them to a well lit, but unassuming office one floor down, and introduced it as “the last stop on their tour.” Peter took in the comfortable waiting room, the inspirational wall art, and the knowing look of the receptionist. He couldn’t say he was surprised. 

“What the fuck is this?” Pool demanded angrily, turning on Pepper and having apparently drawn the same conclusions. Peter could tell from the tone of his voice and the tension in his body that he was about to throw a major hissy fit. “You gonna try to make me go to fucking therapy? Threaten to shock me if I don’t go?! Shock me if I do?! No fucking way!” 

“She’s about to blow,” Peter warned unnecessarily, almost looking forward to this. Volcanopool was something to behold!

“No one is going to make you do anything, Mr. Wilson,” Pepper stated calmly, attempting to control the situation like the boss that she is. “I just want you to know that this service is always available to both of you, during your stay and after. Dr. Najela Wakka is familiar with many of the more unique issues experienced by the powered community. Most of the Avengers have talked to her at one time or another, as have I. She’s a remarkable woman, and I’d at least like you to meet her.”

“Sure thing!” Deadpool sneered immediately, stomping up to the door in his teenage delinquent combat boots and rapping loudly. Before anyone could respond, he swung open the door and stood right in the archway so everyone could hear him holler dramatically, “HIYA DOC! In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m the infamous, yet devastatingly handsome Deadpool. Oh wait, is only part of that right? Oh fucking well! Yes, I see voices, like, all the time, and I have different modes, neither of which should be confused with the times that I’m actually hallucinating and or experiencing fugue states! What else can I say? Prone to violent psychotic episodes, check. Memory loss, check. BPD and PTSD, check and check. Suicidal, double check. Homicidal, triple check and BINGO! Extra points for having offed the last shrink that tried to have me locked up! Whatta ya say, doc, can you cure me?!” 

Deadpool didn’t wait for a response, just slammed the door behind him, stomped passed Peter and Pepper, and then could be heard clodhopping down the hallway. Peter couldn’t help it, he even covered his mouth, though it did little to hide his loony grin.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, though obviously still too amused to be genuinely contrite. “I know it’s not really funny. Everything he said is true, in one way or another. It’s just that he’s such a stubborn drama queen sometimes.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” Pepper commiserated with a knowing smile. “And, trust me, Najela has seen it all.”

Peter took a considering glance at the door to the doctor’s office. “I suppose I should go introduce myself. Everyone keeps telling me I should talk to someone. I must come across as depressed or something.”

“Funny. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised though,” Pepper encouraged. “Just give her a chance.”

Dr. Wakka was an older lady who, refreshingly, did not dye her hair and dressed in a way that a hippy might consider “professional”. She looked more like a real person than most of the model/superhero types that Peter had thus far encountered in Stark Tower, and it went a long way towards putting Peter at ease. Introductions led easily to small talk, which led to more personal questions, and then to heavier topics. Before long Peter was telling the story of how he’d been possessed, during which time he’d been forced to hurt and kill (well, most of the story anyway), and how depressed he’d been afterwards. This, of course, led to an educational discussion on guilt and shame, and the importance of correcting the dysfunctional thinking that keeps these feelings fresh and powerful. 

After almost an hour of talking, Peter had painted a very detailed half of a picture, and Dr. Wakka called him out on it. “We’ve touched on a lot of important things, things that could keep you in therapy indefinitely if you wanted. But it’s also clearly only half of the story. I’m not going to pressure you to talk if you’re not ready, but you’ve got to know that therapy will only help you as much as you can help yourself. There is no magic here.” 

“I know,” Peter replied quickly, feeling chagrined. “It’s just hard to talk about . . . Wade, I guess. I hate always having to defend him and our relationship all the time. No one wants us to be together anyway, or understands what we see in each other. And now, now. . .” Peter trailed off morosely, rubbing his face. 

“Now you’re afraid that your traumas will be used against you, to separate the two of you,” Dr. Wakka concluded, and Peter was temporarily gob smacked by her genius. The doctor must’ve further read his expression correctly, as she then continued, “Peter, I won’t judge your relationship with Wade. That is one thing I can promise you. Whether such a relationship is beneficial to you, or Wade, is another matter, but one that can only be decided by the two involved parties. If you want to remain a couple, then that is a goal that we can work towards.”

So the doctor ordered lunch delivered, and Peter took a long stab at trying to explain Wade and how important Wade was to him; and again how guilty he felt, this time for pulling away from Wade and for triggering such a complete breakdown. If he couldn’t bring himself to reveal the details of what Octavius-as-Peter had done to Wade, well, he figured there’d be time for that. He was clearly gonna be in therapy til the end of time. 

When Peter finally got up to leave, over two hours later, Dr. Wakka stopped him briefly with a hand on his arm. “I stand by what I said. If you and Wade want to continue your romantic partnership, then I’ll try to help you. But I won’t paint you a picture of flowers here. It sounds like both of you have a lot of trauma, some involving each other. And given the apparent codependence of the relationship, the odds of you triggering each other seem high.”

It wasn’t anything Peter hadn’t already been thinking, but he didn’t like hearing it from a professional. It made him want to object, deny, anything but ask for help. “Any advice then?”

“Tread carefully,” Dr. Wakka cautioned kindly. “Don’t push.”

Peter nodded, conceding to himself that it was probably sound advice for anyone not caught up in his particular circus of a relationship. He doubted Pool knew how to do either of those things. 

Peter’s first stop was their suite, which was empty, so JARVIS directed Peter to the gym. There he found Deadpool and Black Widow sparring, though it looked more like they were kicking the shit out of each other. Pool kept getting up, no matter how hard the hit, while talking smack like a pro and bleeding through his mask. Widow didn’t look much better, hair in uncharacteristic disarray and favoring her left leg as she shot death glares at her opponent. The showdown was spirited enough that Peter took a seat next to Barton to watch. 

Barton was munching on some veggie chips and offered the bag to an interested Peter. “They were going easy on each other until Deadpool thought it would be funny to fuck with her hair. That’s when she broke his nose, and THEN things got serious.”

“His poor nose,” Peter sympathized, watching a predictably violent, yet tantalizingly physical interaction unfold. “It gets broken a lot.”

Deadpool leapt at his opponent like a monkey, wrapping arms and legs around her and using his weight to drag her to the ground; only for the Widow to stagger her fall, rolling them so that she was on top of him, knees squeezing his neck; except that when he jerked his hips in, he was able to knee her hard in the spine, and then head-butt her crotch. They rolled away for a couple seconds, but then they were back on top of each other. Widow kicked him hard in the face, but as Pool staggered back, he grabbed her leg, then twisted – so that she fell forward, with Pool dropping on top of her, pinning her and slamming her forehead against the rubber floor with a SMACK! She was only pinned under him for a moment before elbowing him in the stomach, then wriggled free enough to get him in a headlock. Only, Deadpool somehow managed a physically impossible contortion in order to get the Black Widow in a matching headlock and then it was just a battle of wills. . . 

“Is it just me, or is it kinda hot to watch them pulverize each other?” Barton asked. 

He wasn’t wrong. Natasha Romanov was the archetype of lithe female beauty, while Deadpool, reduced to a mask and the muscle hugging sweats, had that classic Greek physique. There was a time when watching them violently rub themselves together would’ve definitely turned him on. His answer came out more morose than he intended, “I guess it depends what you’re into.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Barton scowled. “Just that. . . they’re really into it. Natasha can be, um, a little bloodthirsty – but only in the best way. Life sometimes seems cheap when you outlive everyone else. It’s something they have in common.” 

Peter looked back at the two, who were now trading punches and dodging grabs, and tried to see as Barton did. Romanov’s expression of grim determination probably was a degree of pleasure, while Wade’s loose, confident movements spoke for themselves. Deadpool was enjoying himself, wrestling and fighting with another deadly assassin, and it came as naturally to him as fucking; it was only when the action died down that he became awkward in his body. Maybe, if they couldn’t reconnect sexually, they’d have better luck on the gym mat. It was either a really good idea or a really bad one, and it was a difficult call.

That evening they figured out a plentiful pasta meal based on what was available in their suite, while Wade quizzed Peter about therapy. The conversation had started as more of an accusatory interrogation, but Peter was actually glad to talk about most of the experience. It was difficult, but he wanted Wade to understand what he was going through, and why he’d pushed him away. Peter also hoped that Wade might change his mind regarding therapy, but he wasn’t gonna hold his breath on that one. 

After dinner Wade scanned through some of JARVIS’ media titles before selecting the Fast and the Furious. It was an interesting choice, considering that Wade had always been hot for Brian, and Peter for Dom, and both of them considered the series a sad funeral march now that Paul Walker was dead. Wade sat restlessly next to Peter on the couch, rigid during the opening credits before giving into the fidgeting and shifting, and seeming anything but comfortable. Peter grabbed his arm and pulled him to recline back against his chest, which Wade did stiffly; so Peter nuzzled Wade’s ear and lightly rubbed his neck, and slowly Wade relaxed into the body behind him. Peter only sorta followed the movie, as he was more caught up basking in the pleasant feeling of Wade’s warm weight pressing him into the couch cushions, and the still rare feeling of contentment. He’d had a Good Day, for the first time in maybe a month, and it made him more optimistic for the future. 

About an hour into the movie, Wade started squirming again, slowly and with restraint, but it didn’t take long for Peter to figure out the source of the problem. After the second time Wade had to pull his wandering hand away from his hard cock, he scrambled off the couch and to his feet, then basically power walked to the unused bedroom, bubbling over with excuses, “I’m, uh, just gonna go shower. Cuz. . . most people shower after a workout. Sweat. Right. And blood. And we got Widow juices all over us, which is about as hot as it sounds, but still. ♪♬ We need soap and water, soap and water! ♪♬” 

Wade was in the shower for a long time, and then in front of the TV for even longer, well after Peter had gone to bed, battled insomnia, then finally fallen into a restless asleep. By the time Wade retired to their room, it was close to 3AM and Peter woke long enough to appreciate his arrival and lazily watch the buff man change into full length, bright red pajamas with an iron man pattern on them. The material hugged his pecs, arms, and thighs and made him look ridiculous and hot at the same time.

“Fabulous PJs,” Peter murmured sleepily, hand hovering towards the other man in invitation. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry, just taking precautions,” Wade explained mysteriously before slinking into his arms, like a giant tiger. In an echo of their positions during yesterday’s nap, Wade rested his cheek low on Peter’s chest, wrapping an arm around Peter’s hips and pressing his whole side against Peter’s legs. This time their bodies clicked naturally together, and they settled easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews! More, more, more!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.

The next day, technically Day Three, started much as the last one had ended, with Wade scrambling away from Peter, feeling horny and humiliated as he tried to cover up the monstrous wood sprouting from his lap. Sleep had apparently been nightmare-free, and waking up had been warm and welcoming for once, at least for a few seconds, before he realized that he shouldn’t be rocking against Peter’s thigh. 

[Just a lil more –]

[[Stop acting like a damn dog all the time! This is why Peter’s needs his fucking space!]]

Instantly ashamed, Wade pulled cautiously away from Peter, to the edge of bed, as Yellow continued his hateful rant, [[I really wish I could fucking shock the shit out of you right now. The electroshock might not’ve worked, but I bet some good ol’ negative reinforcement is just what you need.]]

More disturbing than the sentiment was Yellow’s use of the pronoun “you”, as memories of the box’s recent abandonment were still fresh and intimidating. Wade attempted to be his own voice of reason, muttering, “We’re doing the best we can. If he doesn’t want us, there’s not much we can do about that.”

“Wade?” Peter murmured sleepily, shifting to his side. Shit! “Who yuh talkin’ to? You gettin’ up already?”

[[Back to talking to ourself? And we were doing so well. . .]]

Wade desperately concealed his erection, but there was nothing subtle about his cock or his hand movements. “I’m just gonna go. . ..” No way Peter would believe another shower so soon, so Wade finished crudely, “Take a piss.” 

[Boooring.]

Peter blinked at him, then propped himself up on his elbow before raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You don’t have to hide it, hot stuff.”

“Hahaha!” Wade laughed, hating the note of mania that even he could hear. He stood stiffly and headed for the door, hands still cupped conspicuously around his stiffy. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were angling for free show! Haha!”

“Maybe I am!” Peter called out, but Wade wasn’t up for any more humiliation. He used the bathroom off the other bedroom to relieve himself, fast and unsatisfying. At least Yellow had shut up for long enough to get that deed done. For a while there, when Wade and Yellow were both so smitten with Peter, they’d sorta managed a supportive relationship, but now that things with Peter were rocky, it seemed like the old, spiteful Yellow was back. How the Hell had he tolerated the constant derision before Peter? 

[Not well, if I recall. We un-alived ourself a bunch of times.] 

Breakfast was awkward after that. Wade tried to joke and chatter as always, though almost certainly came across more as stressed than entertaining. It was actually a relief when Peter announced that he was going to go “see what Banner was working on.” Of course, without Peter, the inevitable boredom set in. He’d been up half the night watching the telly, so he opted instead for the gym, where he coaxed Barton to spar with him by agreeing to a laundry list of modified rules: no crotch kicking, punching or grabbing; no using one’s crotch to strangle or in any other way; no scratching, biting, spitting, eye gouging, or hair pulling; no use of any surprise weapons, items, or persons; no – Barton had donned heavily padded protection and was still thinking of more conditions by the time Deadpool yelled like an oppressed Scotsman and fucking charged!

Over the lunch hour, Deadpool hung around the communal kitchen and traded barbed small talk with Stark, then Romanov, but they both departed quickly, leaving Pool lonely and socially unsatisfied. Eventually he grew tired of waiting for Peter and so meandered through one of the entertainment areas, picked up a few items, then retired to “his” living room. Even though he knew that at that exact moment Peter was supposed to be meeting with the shrink, he couldn’t help but be frustrated. Alone and imprisoned in an unfriendly Stark Tower was the exact scenario that he’d dreaded so much, and he expressed himself by throwing darts at the various target art. When that got old he used a couple cue sticks to beat the crap out of an artistically colored target dummy. In his defense, Deadpool had ensured that his own performance was also a work of art, pouring his heart and soul into his acrobatic swings, his creative swipes, his lethal lunges. . .

Then he was back in front of the telly, trying to use the actors’ voices to drown out his own. It didn’t work as well as usual, and a few minutes in the thoughtstream started up again. What he really needed was a friend to talk to do, someone to see him and distract him from the boxes, but Peter had been his only friend. He wished Peter was with him, and yet he didn’t, because he was a conflicted mess about that situation. Historically, Deadpool had talked to himself when he’d needed conversation, but he was reluctant to regress on that very public symptom of his mental illness. Instead he clutched at straws, whispering hesitantly, “JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?” came the cool British voice, cutting through the sounds of the Golden Girls in the background.

“If I talk to you, does it count as talking to myself?”

[[Yes, fucktard. It’s a computer.]]

“Not if I respond, sir. And I am programmed to respond to all identifiable social cues.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Deadpool smiled faintly, liking how Jarvis called him sir and thinking that Yellow could go fuck himself. 

[Let’s shoot some shit! I wanna try out some of Stark’s fancy-ass weapons!]

[[Speaking of weapons, where are. . . ?]]

A chasm of fear split open inside of Pool. “Did the A-Team bring my katanas back from the Amazon?”

“Yes, sir. They are in the armory.”

[Me want me want me want!]

“Which is where exactly?” 

“Unfortunately, you are not authorized to access that information at this time,” JARVIS denied, sounding somewhat apologetic.

“Didn’t think so,” Pool sulked. Whatever, it was a long shot, and only a diversion from the real issue anyway. With a unhappy sigh, he tried again, “You any good at relationship advice?”

“I am adequately qualified, though technically unlicensed,” was the deadpan reply. 

“Okay, then. . . I’m gonna tell you something, Jar Jar, cuz I don’t have anyone else to tell and I’m trying not to talk to myself anymore. . .” Deadpool scratched his cheek for a moment, glanced around suspiciously as though he could locate the cameras and sensors, then finally tugged his mask off. He didn’t know what Jarvis thought about the matter, but to him it had become a sign of sincerity and trust. 

His tone was rough and low, to match the seriousness of his confession, “I adore Peter so much, I really do, so much my chest honestly hurts sometimes. Everything hurts sometimes. But losing him drove me over the edge, and not in some maudlin, romantic way.” His voice got louder and faster as he outlined what had happened, “You probably know all this, but it, uhhh, caused this murderous rage-dragon to emerge from, like, the black depths of my psyche or some shit. And I, well, basically rained bloody death and hellfire down upon anyone I encountered. . . Fucking son of a fucking fuck!” 

[[Sounds pretty messed up when you describe it like that, doesn’t it?]]

Wade buried his face in his palms, hunching melodramatically over his knees. After a beat of silence, Jarvis supplied, “I am aware of the situation, sir, and it is quite the dilemma. Those are significant consequences.”

[[No shit, Bennedict Cumberbatch.]]

“No shit. And here’s the real kicker. . .” Wade sat back up, voice dipping once again, so low that no normal person could’ve heard his murmurs over the telly. “I’m fucking scared. I’m flat out afraid to get in that deep again, and wary as Hell of Peter for tempting us back into that insanity. He’s supposed to be the smart one, the sane one, and he thinks getting back together with us is a good idea? Either he’s completely lost it and doesn’t care about the consequences, or else he’s so afraid of us losing it that he’s willing to play the inevitably contrived Fake Boyfriends trope.” 

After a pause, Jarvis tried to answer the non-question, “If I may be so bold, sir, it has been established that you are both experiencing mental health challenges at the moment, and so applying strict logic to either of your decisions may not be an accurate portrayal of the thought processes involved. Only further discussion with Mister Parker can clarify such matters.”

[Boooring. . . Can we talk about getting back into Spidey’s pants instead?]

“Yeee-ah, can’t say the whole talking thing is going too well,” Wade replied morosely, mouth downturned. “Which is why I’m stuck figuring this clusterfuck out by myself. Gotta be smarter about it this time around. To protect myself, and Peter. To protect the whole damn world from fucking Dragonpool.”

[[Yeeeaaah. Good luck with that one, numb nuts.]]

Jarvis was silent for a beat, and Wade was disappointed to consider that he had already exhausted the AI’s patience for him. A second later, the smooth voice did respond, “Those are admirable goals, Mr. Wilson. However, based on my experience with Master Stark, I have theorized that humans rarely have that degree of control over their emotional reactions.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Just because Wade was holding his shit together right now didn’t mean it wouldn’t all fall apart farther down the line; and just cuz his Crazy was mostly depleted at the moment didn’t mean it wouldn’t be raring to go later on. He had to be prepared, he had to be more functional, he had to be better than who he currently was.

“I wanna debut my new Sims-mode of play.”

“I’m afraid I don’t completely understand,” Jarvis confessed apologetically. “Would you care to expand upon that statement?”

“It’s a new self-defense mechanism, like video game mode. Except that mode’s been around for a long time. I mean, it’s a Soul Caliber, you know? Still a classic, but dated. Still top notch for killing and dying and shit, but won’t even turn on around Peter. So I’ve been designing a new mode, specifically to deal with interpersonal torture. In Sims-mode, everything is a game, so I should be able to maintain a “healthy emotional distance”.” Wade parroted the last words bitterly. 

[Sims sucks ass. You realize that if it’s not obsessive, then I’m not interested, right?]

“Is this a state you are capable of inducing?” Jarvis asked seriously. 

Wade shrugged. “I think so. Video game mode is a function of Whitey. . . that’s, uh, one of my two voice boxes.” He swallowed, embarrassed, then berated himself for caring about what anyone thought, even (especially?) an AI. When Jarvis didn’t interrupt, he cleared his throat and continued awkwardly, “At first it only happened when triggered, but then Whitey began to, like, initiate it. Sims-mode was already triggered once, when, uh – ”

[[When Doc Ock sodomized us with a fucking Jarritos bottle!]]

“ANYHOO! Sims-mode should work the same way, but as a function of Yellow. My, um, other box.” 

“That is all very intriguing, Mr. Wilson. I don’t suppose you would be willing to discuss this with an actual expert in human psychology?”

Wade flinched away from the suggestion. “Fuck no.”

[[Even Skynet here thinks we should see a shrink.]]

“I didn’t think so. In that case, I must inform you that I will be monitoring you for attempts at altering your consciousness. If at any point I determine there to be a danger to yourself or others, I will have to contact Master Stark and possibly others.”

“That’s. . . good, I guess. Thanks, Jarhead. I’m glad I won’t be doing this alone.” Wade stroked down the back of his head, the way Peter did some times, and it brought an echo of Peter’s comfort. He knew that this wouldn’t be a permanent solution, these altered states always phased back into reality – eventually. But that was okay, he did actually want to experience his time with Peter, he just needed a better way to cope with emotional distress, something besides violently flipping out all the time. Sims-mode was totally gonna work.

[Who needs therapy? Or mind altering substances?! We’re fucking DEADPOOL, bitches!]

! ^_^ !

Peter came back for dinner, bringing some Gumbo, fried chicken, and caramelized pralines from the main kitchen, which made Deadpool happy enough to forgive and forget the day’s abandonment. It wasn’t like Peter was on lock down, Pool was lucky the other man stuck around at all. Especially when Peter was apparently fitting in so well at Stark Tower, Pool thought as he listened to the other man go on and on about how brilliant Dr. Banner was. It hadn’t escaped his notice how much better, happier even, Peter had seemed since coming here, which relieved Pool greatly. If they’d come here after Octavius’ death, if Wade had been open to Cap’s suggestion then, maybe they would’ve both been spared much pain and suffering. 

Peter chose the movie this time.

“Inception? Love that movie! Christopher Nolan totally gets how hard it is to keep a grip on reality, and I respect that. Plus, poor adorable Leo. Hallucinating murderous exes is never fun.”

Peter gave a half-laugh, half-cringe. “Maybe I should pick something else.”

“No way! Bring on the mind fuck!” Deadpool challenged as he sprawled back on the couch. 

The light dimmed and Peter joined him, then the movie started. Pool resolved to stay focused on the official entertainment, and did a pretty good job of immersing himself in the plot. [Tom Hardy is a five star stud. I’d pay to pound that tight ass.] At least he was, until Peter’s hand caressed up his back to where the neck of his shirt met the hem of his mask.

“Hey,” Peter whispered, leaning closer. “Can you take this off? Please?”

Deadpool swallowed the stab of embarrassment as he did as Peter asked. He’d forgotten to take it off, even though he hadn’t worn his hood during cuddle time since the very early days. It was harder to get back into the movie after that; much too easy to get caught up in how soft Peter’s skin was, the firm feel of his body, the way he always smelled so good. It still reminded him of cookie dough ice cream. 

[Mmm. I’d love to lick some melted ice cream off his pecs. Or abs. Or ass. Slurp slurp yum.]

When Wade inevitably sprouted a hard on forty minutes in, he tried to subtly angle himself away from Peter. Maybe if they just ignored it, Wade could pretend to be a normal person, someone capable of sitting through a movie without popping a demanding chubby. He stopped following the plot almost entirely, as his attention inevitably narrowed to the rough feel of jeans constricting his junk, and the ongoing effort not to touch himself or move suspiciously. 

Wade must not’ve been doing a very good job at hiding his state, as Peter eventually turned towards him to breathe tantalizingly against his ear, “Can I touch you?” 

The words abruptly slayed Wade’s tension and causing him to moan wantonly in relief.

[Can you ever, sweet cheeks!]

“Please, Petey,” Wade begged, pushing his face into Peter’s neck and spreading his legs in invitation. Peter’s hand wasted no time in unzipping his jeans and freeing Wade’s hard cock, grabbing and squeezing it like it was Wade’s very soul. Then Peter started jacking him, fast and confident, like he owned that cock, like he owned all of Wade. This was the searing connection he’d been yearning for so badly. “Oh, thank fuck!”

Peter brought their lips together and they kissed, shallow but desperate, as Peter pulled pleas and moans from him. His swollen cock felt branded by Peter’s strong fingers, pulsing ecstasy with each possessive stroke, and everything bad seemed to fall away, leaving only this spiritual communion with Peter, his personal miracle. Wade’s bare hands found their way to Peter’s perfect face, holding him there so Wade’s could thoroughly possess his hot, wet mouth; could lick at his lips, and suck on his tongue, and trace along teeth and soft flesh with equal greed. The gorgeous young man tasted amazing, like Cajun spices and home, and he smelled even better; he just made everything good. Wade’s needy orgasm was upon him with embarrassing speed, erupting out of him with loud, passionate cries of, “Spidey! God yes!” 

The afterglow felt nice too, so Wade pulled Peter back to him, again seeking out that bewitching mouth. Lips brushed lazily and noses nuzzled, while bodies gently soaked in each other’s warmth. 

After a couple blissful minutes, Wade’s hand drifted down from Peter’s hip to his crotch, only to realize like a splash of icy water that – of course – the hand job had been all about him. Peter hadn’t desired him [[Who could?]], and any connection Wade had felt was purely one sided. Like those times with various hookers, it had just been him getting off on someone who could barely tolerate him. Wade pulled away from Peter quickly, looking away to hide his hurt and humiliation. He felt as though he’d been tricked and betrayed, though there had been no active deceit on Peter’s part.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter assured, reaching a hand out for Wade’s elbow. “I’m sorry I’m not up for more right now, but I still want to make you feel good.” 

[[See, you emotional cripple? Peter was just trying to be close to us, to give us what we want. It’s not his fault that we always make everything about sex. In fact, it’s my fault for letting things get this far.]]

The tense knot of rejection and self-disgust throbbed painfully, and then the intensity plummeted as he intentionally slipped into his new Sims-mode. Agony didn’t hurt as much when it belonged to his avatar, and as he let the mood cool, it was a lot easier to apply a rational strategy to his chaotic thoughts. 

“You know, if you’re gonna end things with me,” Wade announced eventually, when a particular shot lingered on di Caprio’s face for too long. “Sooner is better than later. You don’t have to worry that I’m gonna flip my shit or anything. I’m ready for it this time.” He took a fortifying breath before finishing, “You can break up with me now, no strings or explosives attached, scout’s honor.”

Wade glanced over at Peter, then wished that he hadn’t. He looked so disappointed and hurt, an expression Wade recognized too well these days – on both of them. It seemed like hurting each other is all they were good for anymore and the modest distance between them on the couch seemed like a mighty gulf. “I’m not staying with you because I’m afraid, Wade. I’m staying because I love you and I think my life would be incomplete without you. I don’t want to leave you, and I’m sorry I left before. I don’t know how to make it up to you, except to keep trying even when it’s hard.”

[Or when it’s not hard, as in this case.]

[[Shut it, only a complete miscreant would make that joke right now.]]

“You don’t owe me anything, Peter. I’m the one that needs to take responsibility for. . . ” He swallowed and averted his eyes, but in Sims-mode he managed enough distance to use the label he always avoided, “my chronic mental illness. All the shrinks in the world can’t cure it, it can only be managed, preferably by me. I don’t want to flip out and kill people just cuz I can’t handle a breakup. Not to mention that the next time I go psycho, I’ll probably end up in the Negative Zone.” Wade turned back towards the telly and forged ahead, words coming easier and stronger with the volume of his mortification turned way down. “Which is why I’m telling you: if you wait too long, if you wait til we’re all patched up and happy again, and til the Crazy is fully recharged, then I won’t be expecting it and I won’t react well. I’m ready now.” 

“That’s an awful lot to put on me,” Peter replied hesitantly, though he sounded more considering than angry. “You’re basically saying I should dump you now or love you forever.”

Wade shrugged, glancing over at his boyfriend, who wasn’t wrong in his assessment. “Consider it a marriage proposal from Frankenstein’s monster.”

[If THAT doesn’t sweep him off his feet, nothing will. And extra points for correct use of the term Frankenstein!]

“Great, just how I always imagined getting engaged,” Peter bit out, clearly irritated by the flippant comment. Then he got up and headed for the bedroom, only to stop in the doorway and sigh loudly. “Can we just get through this week first? Before we make lifelong commitments? If I thought you were serious, I’d consider saying yes, of course I would, but only a couple of fools get hitched while their relationship is on the rocks.” 

"Well, my week of forced observation should help you resolve any doubts you’re having,” came Wade's glib reply.

“This is not easy for me either, Wade. Especially not when you can be such a dick sometimes,” Peter admitted tiredly, turning enough that Wade could see his defeated profile. “Don’t think I missed the part of this where you’re okay with us being over, as long as it’s on your terms. Maybe you should consider whether you even want to be saddled with the real me, damaged and depressed and everything. I’m not exactly the sexy, swinging Spiderman that was originally advertized.”

Then Peter retreated to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

[[Hey asshole. Obviously we can’t feel it, but according to the Sims-counter, we’ve just lost major relationship points.]] 

[♪♬ Why do I do the things I do? Was I born this way or am I a self-made fool? I shoot the lights then curse the dark, I need your love but I break your heart. . . ♪♬]

With no intention of sleeping at all that night, and in dire need of distraction, Wade asked Jarvis to relay an invitation to Barton, who was apparently willing to stay up for hours remotely playing Call of Duty. Wade had turned down Barton’s offer to host an in-person session, mostly because his shift out of Sims-mode left him paranoid and triggery; but that didn’t stop him from airing all his personal business while shooting the shit out of the enemy. The thing he liked best about Barton was the fact that he wasn’t at all judgmental. Mostly he just listened, and made useless replies such as, “That sucks,” or “Makes sense,” or “Way TMI, Pool!” 

A little before three, Barton bowed out, and Wade was left to channel surf until after four, when Jarvis interrupted the M*A*S*H marathon, “I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Wilson. However, I suggest you check on Mr. Parker.”

Hunh? Confusion was irrelevant, Wade was at the door in a flash, easing it open silently and stepping into the bedroom. It was scantly decorated yet opulent at the same time, with a huge King size bed, complete with a heavy wood frame that dominated the space. Wade’s eyes immediately found Peter on the edge of the mattress, shaking and curled in on himself, and he approached with caution. “Jarv. Can you, like, raise the lights just a tad?”

“Of course.”

The room lit up dimly, and Wade came close enough to make out the tensed expression, the sweat clumping his hair, and even the rapid movement of his closed eyes. Fuck. Wade was supposed to be the one with nightmares, he was the shithead that deserved them; not Peter. Indeed, Wade had never witnessed his lover experience a nightmare before now, though surely anyone with his history had to have had a few. Already barefoot and barefaced, Wade climbed into bed behind Peter, lying parallel but not touching beyond a gentle palm on Peter’s mid-back. His hand moved in and out with the rhythm of Peter’s breathing, but Wade wasn’t sure what else to do.

Long seconds stretched out until Whitey began humming sadly. A few more seconds passed, and the tune prompted Wade to actually open his mouth to sing, slow and soft, “♪♬You are not alone. I am here with you. Though we’re far apart, you’re always in my heart. But you are not alone. ♪♬ ”

[Thriller would’ve been funny though, wouldn’t it?]

[[About as funny as child molesters can be.]]

After a couple rounds through the chorus, the shaking seemed to be subsiding, so he kept going, again and again, and then switched to humming. Peter eventually stilled and relaxed into his touch, his breathing evening out. Only then did the larger man nuzzle closer, dropping his forehead to Peter’s cooling neck and lightly stroking his fingers down Peter’s arm so as to leave his own arm draped across Peter’s torso. This opportunity here, to use his cursed body to comfort and protect Peter, felt precious. Even more so now that their future together was so uncertain.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this your one time WARNING FOR GRAPHIC SEX. See end of the chapter for additional warnings.

On Day Four, they were woken by a quiet, disembodied chime. 

“What the fuck?” came Wade’s muffled voice, though his body didn’t stir.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Parker, but Master Stark would like a word.”

Peter felt a little fuzzy, but he was content and safe in Wade’s familiar embrace, and his body basically refused to be anything but lazy. “Whah? Do I gotta meet ‘im somewhere?”

“No, but you might want to take this call in private.”

Wade pulled back slightly, only for Peter to grab his arm and hold it around him waist, burrowing back into the strong, muscular body. He hadn’t expected Wade to join him in bed, not after the way they had left things the previous night, but he was relieved and disinclined to create any distance now. “I’ll take it in bed. No visuals.”

“Of course, sir.”

A moment later, Stark’s voice came through the speakers. “Parker? You awake?”

“Barely. What’s going on?”

“The Avengers are suiting up to go to Staten Island. Ninjas are apparently materializing from interdemensional flashportals. Cuz that’s something that happens these days.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute!” Peter replied immediately, shoving Wade’s arm away carelessly and getting to his feet.

“Um, no. YOU are on Deadpool duty. Bruce is staying too, but he can’t do much without also destroying the Tower. That means it falls to you to protect my pride and joy from that menace.”

Peter pivoted slowly back to Wade with an assessing glance. He was still laying in bed, wearing yesterday’s clothes, but his body was tense and ready. Peter was familiar with both the malicious smirk stretching his boyfriend’s lips, and the dangerous squint of his eyes. Stark had to know that Wade was listening in, so why would he issue such a blatant challenge/invitation? Was this a test? Or revenge for not taking the call in private?

“Can’t JARVIS handle that?” Peter countered petulantly, and Wade’s eyes narrowed a little more. 

“Nooo, Parker,” came Stark’s condescending drawl. “You wouldn’t leave his delicate care in the hands of an AI, would you? If Wilson doesn’t obey direct orders, JARVIS would have no choice but to shock him into obedience. Like a Very Bad Dog.”

Stark was one stone cold manipulative asshole, through and through. 

“We’ll be fine,” Peter ground out, wishing Stark was close enough to pummel. He would’ve vastly preferred a mission over babysitting duty. The situation in the Tower was a little stifling, and the allure of an exciting, diverting mission was undeniable.

“GREAT!” Stark hollered with maximum fake enthusiasm. “See you two lovebirds soon!” 

Then Stark logged off, leaving Peter to watch Wade suspiciously, and Wade to grin at him like some sort of unhinged predator. So much for the intimacy of their waking moments. Now Peter had to get control of the situation ASAP, or this was going to spin out of control real quick. He tried laying down the first set of rules, “I’m not playing this game, Pool. If you try to trash the Tower, or whatever, I won’t hesitate to have JARVIS shock you.”

On the mattress, Wade shifted to his knees and bared his teeth in a provocative parody of a smile. “What’re you saying? That YOU are going to keep me prisoner until the fucking Avengers return?”

“I thought you liked that kind of role play,” Peter taunted back. 

“NO ASSHOLE!” Wade hollered aggressively, clearly accessing a well of frustration. “Who wants to be a prison bitch without the goddamn benefits?!”

“Well isn’t that just great?!” Peter glared at him angrily, hands landing prissily on his own hips. “What a shitty thing to say to me! As if I needed any more proof that YOU are the asshole in this situation! As always.” 

“Oh yeah?! Let’s have Jarvis be the judge of that!” Wade retorted.

“What? Why?!” Peter demanded skeptically, completely thrown by the suggestion and still pissed.

“Ricky JAR-VASE!” Wade bellowed, dismounting the bed so that he could stand next to Peter with crossed arms and try to intimidate him with all his bulging muscles, poorly concealed by the Henley shirt and scrub pants that must’ve come from the airplane. 

“Yes, Sir?”

“Based on your monitoring since we’ve arrived at the Tower, who is the bigger Asshole?”

Silence stretched longer than usual, and despite his irritation, Peter almost smiled at the thought of JARVIS struggling to answer this question appropriately. Deadpool could stymie anyone, even an AI. “That is a complex comparison, sirs. There is a preponderance of evidence to weigh, much of which is contextual and must be judged relative to different standards.”

Meaning, of course, that they were both giant assholes, which was probably true. Peter suddenly remembered an idea he’d had earlier, one that still bordered both tantalizing and ill-advised. At least this way, they could both vent some pent up frustration, and Peter could have some measure of control over Wade’s destructive impulses. “Sounds to me like this is an issue for the mat.” 

It was Wade’s turn to look taken aback, but the expression immediately transformed to one of voracious glee, and then Wade was leaping about, waving his arms around enthusiastically. “You’re so fucking ON, Spidey! I’m gonna beat your ass into the ground! You won’t even know what hitchah! Oooooo, you’ve had this fucking smack down coming!”

The thrill of excitement and fear that ran through Peter was invigorating. Since he couldn’t be out there fighting with the real heroes, duking it out with Wade promised its own adrenaline rush. “You talk a lot of shit, old man. Sparring ring, one hour, no weapons.”

“That includes webslingers,” Wade clarified immediately.

“Agreed.” 

Peter gathered some workout clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. After getting dressed, he endured a silent breakfast with Wade, in which they both tried and failed to glare menacingly while stuffing their faces. After that, Peter visited Bruce to check up on the ninja situation, only to learn that it was turning into the usual violent debacle. That was. . . frustrating. He decided to go to the gym early to wrap his hands and warm up. 

Deadpool showed up a few minutes later looking dangerous and sexy as Hell, with full length grey sweats stretched over his muscles, and his soft mask over his face, leaving his hands and feet bare. He jogged straight for sparring ring. “Whenever you’re ready over there, Rhonda Rousey!”

Peter stood and moved closer. “Whatever. Just don’t pull any of that Tyson shit!”

Deadpool jumped up and down a couple times, then cracked his neck loudly in both directions. “Only the local brand of Crazy, check!”

Peter climbed into the ring. He’d already wrapped his hands, so it only took a few seconds to strap on his blue head guard. Then he turned to Pool, who as always forwent any protection, and was bouncing lightly on his toes in far corner of the ring. Peter reflexively bent his knees to lower his center of gravity, just as he raised his hands protectively. “May the bigger asshole win!”

“Wait a sec – ” Deadpool scowled. Peter was familiar enough with his fighting “style” (if something so unpredictable could be called that) to know that Pool preferred to attack first, fast, and by surprise, and that anything else was just a diversion. So Peter lunged forward, forcing Deadpool to retreat first, and then it was really on. Pool swung his fists and kicked his legs, grabbing and twisting and lashing out; but as deft and graceful as he was, Peter was the one who could really float like a butterfly. Peter twirled and dodged and danced back, just a fraction of a second ahead of each powerful blow. He threw a few reflexive punches, but his heart wasn’t into it; the real fun here was in taunting the bull. It was so much more thrilling to see just how close he could let the other man get. . . certainly close enough to feel the brush of air where that fist almost slammed in his face, where that foot almost broke his knee. Each near miss just ratcheted up the excitement, and the shit-eating grin on his face just got shittier. 

“What’s with the pussyfooting around?” Pool sneered after several minutes of rapid fire attacks that mostly failed to land. “Afraid I might mess up that sweet face, pretty boy?”

“You mean you can’t catch me?” Peter mocked immediately, prompting Pool to lunge at him again. Peter sidestepped by a hair, but then Pool twisted around with a flurry of punches that Peter blocked as best he could. A couple heavy blows landed on his chin and temple, and Peter’s head spun despite the guard he was wearing. He clumsily dodged a power swing that would’ve laid him flat out, but then grabbed the overbalanced arm and used the larger man’s momentum to fling Pool forward. Deadpool, of course, executed a perfect roll, as though they were performing gymnastics instead of sparring, then he sprung effortlessly back to his feet.

“Pshaw! As if I need to catch you, Spidey. You can’t stay away!” Bounce, bounce, roundhouse kick!

Sweat caressed Peter’s skin and adrenaline pumped vigorously through his body, bringing a jolt of life to each and every depressed cell. He waited for Pool’s next kick to pivot out to the exposed side, then used the brief opening to execute one of Deadpool’s favorite moves, leaping onto the larger man’s back like a chimp climbing a tree. He wrapped his legs tightly around that that trim waist and fitted an elbow around that thick neck; Deadpool twisted and bucked and grabbed, trying to throw his rider, but Peter adjusted his hold easily and then SQUEEZED, with his arm and legs, eliciting a choking sound from the other man. 

“Now who’s caught who?” Peter taunted, as Pool stumbled to the side. Then he risked easing his hold on Wade’s neck so that he could yank Wade’s hood off with his free hand, just to signal his defeat and piss him off. Yes, he would wave a red flag in front of the bull! Peter laughed breathlessly in exhilaration, even as Wade growled and surged in anger. He threw himself backwards, flipping their weight violently and crashing heavily to the matt, slamming his weight down on Peter. The smaller man’s ribs creaked and all the air was crushed from his lungs, and the pain was exquisite – so distinct and physical. He hadn’t felt so alive in forever!

“Ooofff!” Peter gasped breathlessly, struggling to shove the big bulk off him. “No more Chimichangas for you, fat ass!”

“Baby got back, Spidey!” Wade shot back, aggressively digging an elbow into Peter’s soft bits. Despite the pain, Peter wheezed in laughter and he tried to punch Wade in the back of his bald head. 

They grappled and tussled for a handful more of desperate minutes, literally rolling over each other as they took turns flinging sloppy punches and grunting lame insults. Peter was hot and sweaty, making his exposed arms and calves slick, and Wade’s soft clothes were wet and dark with perspiration; both of their faces were flush with exertion and determination. Everything tingled and pulsed, so much so that Peter didn’t even notice his own arousal until Wade’s thick thigh slid between his as they struggled, and then they both froze in realization. 

Oh shit. This was very Not Good. Peter cursed himself for being all kinds of stupid and fucked up, for the infinite ways that this situation was his fault. They were face to face, so it was easy to see that Wade was having his own moment of revelation, expression blanking briefly before contorting in hurt and anger. Double shit.

Then Wade surged forward to grab Peter’s wrists and roughly pin them to the mattress, thigh applying almost too much pressure to Peter’s cock as the rest of his body weighed threateningly down on Peter’s. Wade’s voice was harsh and pissed. “Is this what it takes, Peter? Do I need to show you who’s boss?” 

Peter had a split second to decide – stop this right now, with the right word, and by force if needed; or allow it to unfold to its godawful end. Peter was breathing fast now, head spinning, knowing even as he made the decision that it wasn’t the smart, or safe one. This was all too real, and if it was a game, it was a new and dangerous one, the rules of which hadn’t been established. Responsible Peter would’ve put a stop to this madness, but Broken Peter was tired of how much of an effort everything was, especially while giving in was clearly the easiest thing in the world. So Peter let his cock rub wantonly up against Wade’s punishing thigh, and tilted his chin up in knowing submission. 

“Oh fucking Hell, you really have been a little cocktease,” Wade hissed before wrenching back and ripping Peter’s shorts down. “Don’t you move your hands or I’ll break your fucking fag wrists!” Then he grabbed Peter’s cock tight and jacked it with sharp, dominating tugs. It was the first erection he’d had since regaining his body, and his endorphins were definitely making up for it. His dick felt so hard and swollen that he was sure he would burst apart at any moment. . . and then he was. Too soon, pleasure exploded from his cock and balls, making his asshole clench and radiating through his limbs. His mind blanked for a powerful second, only to come back on line too fast, too soon, already aching for more. 

Wade had used Peter’s brief incapacitation to yank off his head guard and strip him of his shirt, then manhandle his body towards the edge of the ring. Holding his own wrists on the mattress as commanded, Peter wrapped his bare legs around that strong torso and used all his strength to pull Wade close. “I guess you figured me out,” he rasped right into that scarred ear. “Are you gonna take what you’re owed?”

“You know I am,” Wade growled back, before rearing back and pulling Peter right to the edge of the ring, ass hanging off side, and legs suspended by the lowest rung of ropes, with arms splayed limply. Peter felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable, but for once it came naturally and without embarrassment. He was going to get the fucking he deserved. 

Wade’s big hand darted between Peter’s splayed thighs, quickly scooping up the cum coating Peter’s stomach, then those blunt tips were at his exposed hole. Two thick fingers breached him and he cried out at the intensity of the stretch and the friction. Though he wanted nothing more, it had been almost over a month since he’d last been penetrated, and the cum was a poor lubricant in his tight passage. Now those thick fingers rubbed his rim, thoroughly if ungently, and gradually twisted their way in. Peter was grunting and gasping, the rough friction burning with equal amounts pleasure and pain. 

The cum wasn’t enough. Wade swiped up the rest from Peter’s messy abs, then stuffed three fingers into Peter’s greedy hole. Peter groaned loudly, using what leverage he could, from shoulders and spread arms, to thrust back on the massive intrusion. Every dragging, too dry movement was intimate agony, and yet his prick was already half-hard and he so desperately craved more. “Fuck me hard, Wade! Split me open with your giant prick!”

In was Wade’s turn to moan loudly, only to withdraw his fingers so that Peter clenched around the aching emptiness and keened in need. Wade spat on his palm, then wrapped the mess around his huge, oozing cock, and Peter knew how much this was gonna hurt and yet he couldn’t wait –

The massive bulb was pressing at his twitching muscle, waiting for the next involuntary spasm to slowly press in – 

“AAAHHH!” Peter cried, as irresistible ecstasy warred with the brutal physical stretch of his hole. Wade didn’t stop, and instead brought his hands to Peter’s hips, to better control the penetration, the steady invasion of that gigantic cock. Yes, yes, more! Drive out everything but this feeling!

“Do you like that, slut? Do you like how much it hurts?” Wade taunted, eyes narrowed and piercing, his grip already so tight that it was leaving marks. And still that huge member drilled its way in, hollowing Peter out and scraping him raw. He adored the way it hurt: his abused hole, of course, but also the bruises that the littered his body, and the trauma that pierced his mind as though he’d stepped on a sea urchin.

“UUUNNNGH!” Peter strangled on his own cry as Wade impaled him with another inch, pain now surpassing the pleasure but still exploding through him like fireworks. Wade froze, long enough for Peter’s entire body to squirm and writhe wantonly upon the massive intrusion. 

“Hmm. . . Hmm. . . Hmm. . .” The longer Wade held still, the more Peter’s breaths sounded like moans. “For the love of god, don’t stop! Give it to me, Wade! Please, PLEASE!”

But Wade still didn’t move, and the aggression in his expression bled into grief and disappointment. The bruising fingers left his hips and landed lightly on his ankles, then traced softly up his suspended legs. “This isn’t enough lube, Petey. I’d tear you up.” 

More than the words, the denial filled Peter with his own worthless outrage, which spilled from his lips even as he undulated helplessly on the cock stuffing his hole. “Since when are you the responsible one? Shut up and fuck me already!”

Wade growled and bit his left calf hard enough to draw blood, dragging his massive cock, too fast, out through Peter’s raw rim. 

“AH, fuck!” Peter yelled out hoarsely, as his burning hole spasmed and tried to shrink. He curled in on himself reflexively, only for Wade to fling his legs over the ropes like sacks of garbage. The physical hurt was minor, and it was the sting of rejection and humiliation that brought hot tears to his eyes. He cried out desperately, “Don’t you dare leave me like this!”

It took a panicked, disorienting moment to realize that Wade hadn’t stomped off, but was actually rummaging through the first aid box from under the stage. Then the rollercoaster swung up, so that hope bloomed through him; only then Peter was crying for real, because he hated life on the rollercoaster. He didn’t know how Wade did it, Peter found his own mood swings exhausting and overwhelming. 

Tears streaming down his face, he turned onto his front and raised himself up on his elbows and knees, using his body and voice to plead for it. “Please, Wade. Please! I’m begging you.”

Wade climbed back into the ring, then assured/menaced, “Believe me, baby boy, I’m not going anywhere.”

Then Wade jockeyed up behind Peter, and the dangerous thrill of his presence had Peter dropping his head and parting his legs farther. Wade squirted something cold and viscous right on Peter’s eager hole, and it felt so good on his tender pucker that Peter moaned his relief. A second later, Wade palmed each of his ass cheeks, squeezing them and using his thumbs to rub the makeshift lube around his sore entrance. Peter’s body arched into the touch, so that the thick digits slipped inside, stinging deliciously, and Wade wasted no time thrusting in and out a several times. Then he slowed his movements, deliberately hooking a thumb around either side of Peter’s distended rim and carefully prying the trembling muscle open. “In fact. I want to see how much of me, I can fit in your loose little slut-hole.” 

The words registered, if not their meaning, as Peter was already a moaning, quivering mess. His eyes were squeezed shut as he focused, his entire world narrowed down to a gaping, grasping orifice; to the blunt fingers pinning it apart; to the thick cock prodding at his manipulated opening. And then those thumbs were pulling him farther apart, and that monstrous thing was prying open the space in between, and fire was flaring up Peter’s spine. Every muscle in his leg and abdomen trembled with the effort of stretching and accommodating, while his rim was so distended that it fluttered constantly in response to the taunt drag of cock, the deliberate parting of thumbs. Wade was literally holding him open and fucking into him, watching Peter’s frigid body eagerly take not just his huge cock but two thick digits. It hurt intimately, but the possession was so thorough that any pain was Wade’s to inflict and Peter’s to suffer. It also felt amazing, his own dick was finally full mast and dripping between his legs, and agonizing pleasure jagging out from each slow twist and drag of Wade’s cock – also Wade’s to control, and Peter’s to submit to. 

“You sound like an animal in a rut,” Wade sneered. “And your hole looks fucking wrecked. Have you seen that movie Deliverance? Bet I can make you squeal like a pig!”

Peter could only moan louder at the horrible words and imagery, but then Wade’s fingers slid out of him, and for a moment he could breathe easier. Only then those large hands were on his hips, bracing Wade to pull out maybe halfway, then slam back into the hilt, again and again and again. And maybe Peter did squeal a little, he certainly writhed and bucked like a stuck pig. Finally, one of Wade’s arms moved up to his chest, pulled Peter back and up, until they were both kneeling, Wade maintaining a deep, rhythmic thrust despite the change in position. 

“Touch yourself,” Wade ordered, voice dark and gravely. “So I can see how much you’re enjoying this.”

It was only at those words that it occurred to Peter to look around, and sure enough, they were in easy, if modestly distant view of a wall of mirrors. Wade held Peter’s nearly naked body up as if on display, most of his own still hidden behind clothes and Peter himself. Then he thrust hard, and Peter moaned loudly at the change in angle, the shifting balance of pain and pleasure. “I said touch yourself, cockslut.”

Peter wasn’t sure why he hadn’t obeyed immediately, and now grabbed his own impatient cock with a clumsy hand. Wade might’ve been watching the mirrors (and wasn’t that an irony), but Peter was over stimulated enough as it was. Wade pistoned into him again, and again, and the throbbing tingle in his dick grew and swelled until it numbed most of the pain in his abused hole, and he was left teetering between the intense, magnifying pleasure of both. “Shit, Wade! I’m gonna cum so hard!”

Wade’s hands fell back to Peter’s hips then, and he started pushing in faster and harder, forcing Peter’s body through the burn, pulling groans and curses from both of them. Wade’s breath came hot and demanding in Peter’s ear, “I’m never gonna stop fucking you!”

Then Peter was cumming and cumming, and Wade kept fucking into him, deep and penetrating, holding him up even as his cock drug in and out of Peter’s shuddering backdoor. He kept going long enough that the pain and sensitivity grew almost unbearable, had Peter’s twitching body had any will to resist; until finally Wade was slamming into him one last time and flooding his insides with molten cum that burned and soothed his aching hole. 

They kneeled like that for what felt like a long time, until their breathing evened out and their heart beats synched; until even Wade’s iron thighs trembled from supporting both their weights. Then Wade braced Peter’s hips and helped him dismount, but Peter couldn’t stifle the moan of pain as the soft dick slipped roughly out of him. He felt disoriented and wasn’t sure what was supposed to come next, but was profoundly grateful when Wade turned him around and pulled him into his lap. They kissed lightly and bumped foreheads before Peter averted his eyes from Wade’s intense gaze. 

“Are you mad at me?” Peter had to ask, ashamed of his own behavior, unconscious and otherwise. He deserved worse than an aching asshole. 

“Mad, no. Concerned, maybe. . . Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather you want me in a fucked up way than not at all, but this is pretty fucked up, by your standards anyway.”

Peter’s face burned with humiliation, and his throat made it hard for him to breathe. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “I’m messed up. This was the first time I’ve even, you know, gotten it up at all since Doc Ock.”

“That’s something, I guess,” Wade sighed, lightly (nervously?) petting Peter’s damp hair and neck. “But I hurt you.”

“I wanted you to,” Peter tried to justify. “I wanted more.” And what he couldn’t admit to himself, let alone verbalize: I wanted you to punish me. 

Wade gently pushed Peter back to arms’ length, and then reached between Peter’s legs and under his soft dick. Peter didn’t resist as Wade’s middle finger dove into his slick crack and the tip dipped into his sore orifice, making it clench protectively and painfully. Peter moaned a little even as Wade withdrew his hand, then brought it up to show Peter the faint traces of blood. “Look.”

Wade’s tone was quiet and gentle, but still the shame and humiliation flared even hotter, so much more agonizing than his torn up hole, and Peter felt tears burn anew in the corner of his eyes. He was supposed to be the responsible, safe one, and yet he’d weakly given into his darker impulses and let Wade fuck him raw and half dry, and totally would’ve let him take it much, much farther. Peter tried to turn his face away, but Wade wiped his fingers on his sweatshirt and then cupped his jaw with both hands, forcing their gazes back together. 

“Hey. I’m glad we got our mojo back, in any form. But I won’t do that again,” Wade vowed aggressively. “Not without real lube. Hurting you like that is a hard limit for me.” 

Peter’s jaw dropped open, just a little. Outside of their first conversation in which they had both agreed to no kids, animals, or shit, Wade had been steadfastly against the concept of hard limits for himself and had never suggested one. Until now. Peter was torn between the familiar shame of having pushed Wade to this, but also the heart-swelling relief and pride that Wade could, and would, take some responsibility for the never ending rollercoaster they were on. It was too easy to collapse into Wade’s strength, to close his eyes and fuse their needy lips, and to just let his emotional mess dissolve into Wade’s.

Silent tears trickled out of the corner of Peter’s eyes, and after a few seconds of dry, shallow kisses, Peter pulled away just far enough to mouth into the scarred skin of Wade’s neck. “It’s nothing,” he minimized, though his voice caught and broke as he tried to finish the soul-shredding thought. “Nothing compared to what I did to you.”

Wade’s breath hitched noticeably, but he just held Peter tighter, using his free hand to stroke down his hair, his neck, his back. “You didn’t do that to me, Peter.”

A balloon of grief forced him to release the one awful question that had been tearing at his selfish soul, “Do you think that I ruined it for you? Being touched – penetrated, I mean.”

Wade was silent for a long beat, and Peter just cried harder as he imagined Wade’s doubts and fears, as he projected the kind of protracted trauma he’d have in response to such a grievous violation. Except that Wade gently held Peter to him (how could Wade even stand to touch him?), and finally answered with more tranquility and reason than Peter was managing. 

“Peter, come on. Please tell me you’re not worried about that. If I developed debilitating PTSD every time something horrific happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to get down the street without falling apart. The way I see it, Doc Ock fucked with me and tortured me. I won’t lie, it was all types of bloody awful, and an even bloodier mess to fix up later, which you should ask me about, like, never; but none of that was you. And, frankly, I’ve been put through a LOT worse from some way scarier mofos. I’ve been raped before, and stabbed and burned and shot, like a million times. I’ve even been dismembered, eviscerated, and skinned alive. And some of that shit takes a REALLY long time to kill you. . . 

“Anyhoo! The point, right! Which is. . . while glass bottles might make me twitchy for a time, I’m pretty sure I’m down with some, uh, moderate ass play. Whatever, whenever you want to try. I’ve said it before, and it’s still true: I’m just thrilled that you want to play with me at all.” 

Peter hung on Wade’s every word, his sobs transitioning into hiccups. A grateful, pathetic hope woke within him, only to be quickly muffled by the endless nattering of guilt. How dare he expect Wade to wait for him to be ready, and still fret about what Wade was up for sexually?! But that flame of hope had cast a warm tint over everything, and Peter berated himself for trying to be unhappy. He was damn sick of being a depressed, confused, emotional wreck all the time, and he missed his old self – boring, responsible, workaholic Peter. 

Drawing back, Peter felt unusually shy and vulnerable as he offered the well used words, “I love you.”

He couldn’t help yearning for Wade to return his declaration, but when the pause went on too long, JARVIS interjected, “Sirs? I apologize for interrupting you, but I doubt you would want me to wait any longer. Iron Man is two minutes out, and the Quinjet five.”

“Thanks,” Peter replied, scrambling to his feet. He spotted his shorts hanging from one of the ring ropes, though moving and bending to put them on was challenging. Stark would discover their sexcapades if he cared to know, but Peter would still rather not get caught in flagrante delicto. 

“I wonder who else has fucked in here,” Wade wondered, having pulled his pants and mask back on, and started picking up the first aid supplies. “You’d think someone like Stark would have lube in their gym.”

“It’s located in the bathroom, Mr. Deadpool,” JAVIS responded. “Indeed, lube is stocked in every bathroom throughout the tower.”

“Well, fuck me, I guess he really is a genius! And a philanthropist!” Wade exclaimed, pocketing something from the first aid kit. 

“What exactly are you stealing?” Peter asked with a wince, hobbling like an old man. His enflamed channel objected harshly as he bent to climb out of the sparring ring. 

Wade smirked at him. “Given the way you’re limping, I thought you might appreciate an analgesic. I can rub it in wherever it hurts.”

“We’ll see.” Peter hurried by, flushed in embarrassment, though his newly awoken libido took a shine to the idea immediately. Arousal flamed through him at the fantasy of thick fingers prodding into his sore channel, along with the delicious erotic pain. He was definitely tempted to agree, but he was also a little wary of diving headlong into this last “success”. He was pretty certain that his sexual hang-ups hadn’t magically resolved with one solid fucking. 

They arrived at the roof just as Iron Man was touching down, and the three men met on the walkway. Stark had raised his face plate to speak, “Ninjas packed up and sent back to the alternate dimension they came from. Only minor civilian injuries and none to the team. And, miraculously, it looks like the Tower is still standing. Dare I declare a perfect game? Or do I need to look inside first?”

“I was busy,” Deadpool retorted. “But I’ll get on that first thing.”

“Ninjas from an alternate dimension weren’t interesting at all?” Peter asked skeptically. 

Stark took a second, longer look at Peter, making him doubt his hasty cleanup job. “You look a little roughed up.” Then he glanced at Pool with narrowed eyes. “You two been fighting?”

“Sparring,” Peter clarified firmly, his body aching intimately from the truth. The dregs of Deadpool’s cum were still seeping unseen from his hole and it felt exhilarating. 

A second later, Pool just had to add, “It’s great for releasing tension, if you know what I mean.” 

“JARVIS? Can you confirm this?” Stark demanded. 

“Indeed, sir. Our guests spent much of your absence in the gym, where they did spar.” 

Peter smirked a little at the answer, but Deadpool flat out said, “Thanks, Jarby.”

Stark still looked suspicious, but their attentions all diverted as the Quinjet approached, then landed. A moment later, out walked Captain America and the Winter Soldier, then Black Widow and Hawkeye, and finally Falcon.

“I don’t see why he gets invited to go, but I don’t,” Deadpool grumbled sourly, hand fluttering in the Winter Soldier’s direction. 

“He sees Dr. Wakka,” Stark replied snottily. “You’ll find that the Avengers are big on therapy.” 

Pool snorted. “Bet YOU had to learn that the hard way.”

Stark just shrugged, “Is there any other way, when it comes to therapy?” 

“No,” agreed the Winter Soldier darkly as he and Cap neared, showing off their superhuman hearing. 

“We’re going to debrief in Bruce’s lab, if you two want to join us,” Cap offered, looking relatively pleased with himself. 

“Uh, no thanks,” Deadpool responded, already backing up, being as he was severely allergic to boring, protracted meetings. “Gotta go pluck my non-existent eyebrows. What about you, Spidey? Feel like sitting on your ass for a long time?”

Deadpool looked at him so blatantly that Peter had to roll his eyes. Still, ninjas from another dimension never had a chance.

Thanks to Stark’s endless hot water, they were able to take separate showers at the same time. For once, Peter was grateful for Wade’s preference for bathing privately, as he didn’t want the older man to witness how nervous he was. He tried to imagine Wade’s strong hands when he cleaned himself with tentative touches, rolling his balls and fondling his soft prick without any reaction. Of course, when he reached behind himself, his soapy fingers went straight for his raw, sensitive pucker, and he moaned at the arousing sting. He had to force himself to stop, and then hurried through drying so that he could climb naked into bed and wait, because Wade always took longer. He was unsure why it was so important to be ready, just that he viscerally needed to kneel prostrate on the mattress, ass held up in offering, gluttonous hole exposed. He’d always felt so embarrassed and awkward at exposing himself this way, but now he wanted to, reveled even in the shamelessness. 

Look at me, Wade, desperate for you to shove something, anything, into my abused hole. Look at me, begging you to fit back into me, to take me and hurt me, to punish me like I deserve. Do you see how tainted and twisted I’ve become, how broken? Do you see how little self-respect I have, how degraded my behavior? Does it make you want to take me apart, to take advantage of me, the way I have done to you?

Peter’s thoughts were harsh and unkind, but they only encouraged his masochistic prick to swell and throb. Everything felt so sensitive – his senses, his emotions, his raw pucker – that it was difficult not to touch himself, and absolutely impossible not to squirm in arousal. Indeed, soon he was rubbing his heated face against the cool pillows and squeezing his ass cheeks together, his twitching erection bouncing and oozing between his thighs. 

“Oh, fuck, baby boy. You look like Christmas came early,” announced Wade’s husky voice, finally, and Peter moaned faintly in anticipation, spreading his legs and cleaning up his presentation.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Peter admitted breathlessly, teasing them both. With his head down, he could barely see Wade beyond a glimpse of bare skin and a white towel.

“I can tell,” Wade rasped, dipping the mattress as he crawled into bed. A second later, Peter felt large hands caress up his thighs, then past his hips and up his ribs. “Found this coconut oil in the bathroom, better than the medical shit I swiped from the gym. Want me to rub you down first?”

Aside from his impatience, Peter was afraid that something like that might actually cause him to lose his erection, so he just dipped his head further, and adjusted his hips forward just so, his desperate hole doing its own begging. . . 

“Straight to the fingering it is.” Then one big hand landed on Peter’s hip, and the other low on his thigh, easing his body down on the mattress and his thigh out to side. The hands disappeared for a moment, but only to treat him to the sound of the coconut oil being opened. Peter’s erection rubbed into the sheets, and a greedy, satisfied relief flooded him, as though his body knew that its reward was almost there. The hand on his hip moved down, parting a cheek, while the other one ran up his leg into his cleft. 

“Shit, Petey,” Wade cursed quietly. “You’re all swollen and raw.”

That’s exactly how Peter felt, inside and out, so he muffled his answer into the bedding, “That’s why you’re doing this. Please.”

Wade hauled himself up behind Peter, widely straddling the straighter thigh and pressing close. It would’ve had Wade’s cock up against Peter’s crack, except that those two blunt, oiled fingers had gotten there first, and were gently pressing at his tender opening. Peter moaned happily even as he braced for the penetration. . . only for Wade to hold back and slowly rub slick circles around his sore rim. That was perfect too, relaxing the abused muscles and flooding his body with pleasure, while still aching enough to hint at what was coming. 

Then those fingertips were dipping in and doing lazy laps within the weakly clenching pucker. Each spasm fed an intoxicating plume of pain blossoming up his channel. “Oh, shit! Wade!” 

Finally, one finger eased into his tender wound, and Peter moaned in pain even as he pushed back on it. His dick was a hard as a rock. “Yeah? You like that, Petey?”

Peter nodded, as the oiled finger massaged his swollen insides. When the finger started its slow in and out, he only lasted a couple minutes balanced so perfectly between pain and pleasure. “Please! Give me another one.”

Wade slipped his finger out, then leaned away from Peter to get more oil. “Turn around.”

Peter wasted no time in obeying, flipping over onto his back and spreading his bent legs wide, his hard cock jutting up shamelessly. Wade shuffled over to get between Peter’s knees, one hand again pulling back a cheek, and the other pressing two slick fingers into his overindulged cavity. Their insertion was slow, and for a few seconds Peter managed to breathe through the burn; but even such a modest stretch hurt horribly and a moment later he was crying out. 

The fingers stopped, and he couldn’t say why, but Peter whimpered, “Don’t stop!” 

Wade’s free hand left Peter’s ass cheek and wrapped firmly around Peter’s cock, jacking him with slow, tight strokes, until the pleasure flooded over the pain, until his head flung back and he moaned brokenly. Only then did Wade’s fingers bury in completely, causing Peter’s hips to stutter uselessly; trapped by strong hands around him and inside him, one squeezing and one impaling and both controlling his every movement, he was helpless to do anything but writhe in the exquisite torment. The sensations grew overwhelming quickly, and then Peter’s balls were drawing up, and he was so close –

Without warning Wade dove, face first, into Peter’s crotch, and swallowed down Peter’s engorged cock, sucking it hard and deep, so that it bumped the back of his throat. Peter inhaled sharply in panic and pleasure, adrenaline spiking and then suddenly –

FLASH! Octopeter grabbed that hideous bald head and thrust harder, and harder, then faster; taking pleasure in fucking his choking throat, in the power dynamic, in punishing such worthless scum – 

Abruptly flooded by fear and horror at himself, Peter flipped the fuck out and kicked Wade away, yelling “Stop! Stop!”

Peter was back to himself the next instant, breathing heavily and shakily trying to take stock of the situation. His hole hurt even more after the speedy ejection of Wade’s fingers, and his cock was deflating, but worse by far was the concerned and alarmed look on Wade’s face, and the fact that he was rubbing his shoulder where Peter’s heel had landed. And just like that, the shame and guilt returned with a vengeance. Wade was supposed to be punishing Peter with this perversion, not reliving his own trauma. It was false logic, he knew it even as he fell for its seduction. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter offered meekly, ducking his eyes. 

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. . . blown you?” Wade clearly guessed, obviously floundering. “Are we back to this problem after all these months?”

“It’s stupid, I know,” Peter murmured, drawing his knees up so he could hide his miserable expression in them. It didn’t matter that the position pulled painfully at his raw rectum. “I just had a, um, like a flashback, you know?” 

“You forget who you’re talking to? Yes, I know flashbacks. Of course I do,” Wade assured, but still he held back, as though waiting for the next act in the Unraveling Peter show. When Peter didn’t move or say anything for a long minute, Wade ventured, “Maybe. . . you should go to therapy.”

Peter chuckled jaggedly at that, finally lifting his head to show his torn expression. “I know, right? I must be completely losing it, if even you’re telling me to take my problems to a professional.”

Wade offered a one-shouldered shrug and a fragile, intimate smile. “I’m the last one to tell anyone to go to therapy. I mean, duuuh. It’s just that it’s almost time for your appointment.”

Peter was feeling a little shaky and fragile himself, so he reached out a hand, palm up. “Can I get a hug?”

“Any time, baby boy.” Then Wade was moving closer, and clumsily manhandled Peter so that he was curled into Wade’s larger body, pressing as much warm, naked skin together as possible. Wade peppered gentle kisses on Peter’s face, and though they were both half hard, at least they were able to leave it be for once.

! ^_^ !

Sitting through therapy was physically torturous, as Peter’s abused rear complained with every shift and squirm. It was also profoundly humiliating, as he forced himself to explain recent developments. The good doctor listened without judgment, thankfully, but then expressed her concern.

“Peter, we’ve talked about this. You both have sexual trauma that needs to be worked through before you return to your previous behaviors. Maybe you two could connect over some casual sexual activity, but what you’re describing is too much, way too soon. No wonder you had a flashback. If you keep pushing, it’ll only make matters worse.” 

Dr. Wakka could’ve been a prophet, and her warning still wouldn’t have been heeded. Peter was intelligent and self aware enough to understand the close relation between his emotional trauma and current sexual dysfunction; but all the intelligence and self-awareness in the world couldn’t fix the obviously flawed, negative thought patterns that kept shunting him towards self-destructive behavior. And Peter wasn’t ready to let go of those patterns yet, not when they promised him Wade.

Peter left the doctor’s office emotionally drained, but still hopeful enough to be determined. Dr. Wakka had helped him identify some cognitive behavioral strategies for dealing with his guilt and depression, and they seemed promising enough that he could at least believe that he was fixable. So that’s what he told himself, repeatedly and ad nauseum: it’s all fixable; school, work, even his relationship with Wade. 

JARVIS helped Peter locate his boyfriend in the common room, playing a first person shooter with Clint Barton and Sam Wilson. Peter was about to join them when he spotted Bucky Barnes on one of the side couches, then curiosity made him freeze at the door and watch. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t make that shot. I’ve totally made that!” Deadpool bragged loudly and obnoxiously, pounding and manipulating his controller with much more energy than necessary.

“The game has fucked up the shot,” Barnes stated blandly, though still managing to sound deadly. “Given the counter rotation of both platforms, my bullet’s trajectory was mathematically accurate and should’ve been a hit.”

Deadpool laughed. Bam. Bam. Bam. “Who the fuck cares? You can tell from the glitchy graphics how the game is coding the trajectory.”

“That’s true,” Hawkeye added unhelpfully, leaning over his knees at the edge of the couch and hammering his own controller. Bam. Bam. “I made that shot easy.”

“I’m glad your years of experience have given you at least some advantage over him on his first day,” Wilson spoke up for first time. Bam. Bambambam. 

“Sounds like we need to take this poor man under our wing,” Hawkeye suggested flippantly. Run run. Bam. “How else is he ever going to ascend to simulated combat greatness? Steve certainly isn’t going to show him the ropes.”

“Sure,” Pool responded, violently fingering his console. Run run run K-BLAM! “I’ve got a lot of time on my hands these days.” Just then, Barnes’ avatar groaned and died, prompting Deadpool to continue, “Of course, we could always move to the sparring ring, if you think you’d have more fun engaging in hands-on simulated combat.”

“Spending two minutes trying not to murder my opponent does not sound fun,” Barnes replied, scowling at the screen. 

“Burn!” Falcon crowed.

“I’ve seen him and Steve try to flatten each other,” Barton warned. “I’m gonna have to click. . . Decline.”

“Extra points for the South Park reference!” Pool cheered. Bam. Bam. “But seriously, you wouldn’t have to worry about holding back with me. I’m basically the perfect punching bag, everything heals. Plus, you know, I’m hoping to collect the whole team by the end of my stay. So far, I kicked Black Widow’s, Pideoneye’s, and Spidey’s asses! I’d love to add the Universal Soldier to my undefeated record.”

“Hold up one damn second!” Barton objected energetically, only for Wilson to interrupt, Bam bam, “Bucky, don’t ever watch that movie, guaranteed trigger.”

“More importantly!” Barton reasserted loudly, “Wade here is a compulsive, self-promoting liar. Natasha won their last encounter, as apparently Deadpool here wasn’t too eager to regrow his balls.”

“That grab was literally below the belt,” Pool retorted immediately. Bam. “Bitch was disqualified.”

“Riiight. But you see how we’re gonna need third party verification in order to believe you kicked Spiderman’s ass?” Bambambam. Bambambam. Peter shifted uncomfortably, already rolling his eyes at the inevitably crude response that Wade would make. It would be too conspicuous to interrupt now, so maybe he should just leave.

“We sparred this morning,” Pool stated with exaggerated indifference. “And his ass submitted to my pounding.” Peter face palmed just through the doorway. “That’s close enough in my books.”

“Too Much Information, bro,” Barton complained loudly. “And no, not even close to the same thing.”

“And that’s why I categorically refuse to throw down with you,” Wilson drawled, shaking his head. 

“Whatev. You’re only an auxiliary member anyway. And I definitely kicked your ass, Hawkeye,” Pool boasted. Run run run. Bam bam bam. 

Barnes glanced at each man, though both remained glued to the action unfolding on Stark’s ginormous screen. Peter missed whatever he said, as his own Spidersense alerted to a presence sneaking up on him. He twisted quickly around to find Steve Rogers surprisingly close, almost peering over his shoulder. 

“Are they getting along?” Rogers asked quietly.

Peter was surprised, and wondered, not for the first time, about the relationship between Cap and the former Winter Soldier. It was weird to think that Spiderman and Captain America maybe had something significant in common: traumatized, mass-murdering boyfriends with unpredictable social skills. “I think so.”

“Good,” Roger said with obvious satisfaction, and perhaps a little wistfulness. “We can all use more friends.” 

Was that a friendship come-on from Captain America? Peter wavered between feeling eager and undeserving, then turned back to look at the video gamers. “Yeah, I’m running kinda low in that category myself.”

Rogers shifted nearer, to observe over Peter’s shoulder, his bulk taking up a space usually only occupied by Wade. For a moment Peter was treated to a little homemade fantasy in which Captain America fucked the stuffing out of him, leaving Peter completely spent; in act II, Wade demanded sloppy seconds, and then took his jealous frustration out on Peter’s overworked ass, this time leaving Peter nearly insensate. Wade was prone to both jealousy and erotic fantasies in which Peter was sullied and penetrated by others, so that Peter occasionally wondered how he’s react in such a scene. But Peter would be stupid to initiate something like that under these circumstances, as Dr. Wakka had just finished lecturing him on.

Peter and Steve watched the trio of assassins, plus Falcon, trade banter while blasting away countless simulated enemies. Eventually they joined them, Peter plopping down next to Pool while Steve settled more cautiously next to the former Winter Soldier. They even played a couple raucous rounds, before everyone moved to the attached kitchen. Dinner was lively, though primarily showcased the obscene amounts of food that the four modified humans could put away. They pretty much consumed any and everything that was already prepared or could be quickly reheated.

Only Peter expressed any concern at all. “What about the others? Banner’s not gonna come down and hulk out when he sees that we cleared out the fridge?”

Clint shrugged and answered around his Pad See Ewe. “Banner’s got a kitchen all to himself, for when he’s particularly hangry.”

Pool’s mask was rolled up to just above his lip, and was only half-heartedly covering his mouth, so that Peter was treated to the rare public smirk as the merc considered that imagery. 

Steve’s smile was self-deprecating. “Not to mention that JARVIS monitors the all the kitchens, and will have supplies replenished within an hour. I’ve been living here on and off for over a year, and having as much food as I could possibly eat. . . that is the luxury that I find the hardest to get used to.”

“Our whole generation is rolling in their graves,” Barnes contributed, which sounded a little morbid in his flat affect.

After dinner, Peter and Pool went back to their suite, keeping up an easy back and forth, flirty but cautious. Peter was sore enough that he felt justified in wanting a session in the hot tub, despite them both having showered earlier. As they walked through the door, he said, “I think I’m gonna try out Stark’s ridiculous Jacuzzi, cuz my muscles hurt almost as much as my ass. I’m kinda out shape from my weeks as a human potato.” When Wade just hummed in acknowledgement, Peter tried to invite him too, “You could join me, you know, just to soak? I bet it’d make your skin feel better.”

Deadpool froze where he stood, head cocked to the side and clearly having one of his inner debates. Peter was inclined to join in on that exchange, “I doubt I’m up for any more action, but how ‘bout this? Same rules as when I’m sleeping. You can touch yourself, but not me. And no mask.” 

“Psh! I wasn’t going to wear my hood into a bath!” Pool denied theatrically, ice breaking in a flurry of nervous, manic life. “That’s C-C-Crazy territory!”

“Come on then,” Peter responded, as though that reply had been a yes, and leading the way to the bathroom. It must’ve worked, cuz Wade followed, mask already in hand. Peter started up the Jacuzzi and then stripped, putting on just a bit of a show, as he was relatively confident of Wade’s attention. Sure enough, when he turned back to the older man, Wade was watching him cautiously and still fully dressed. Peter smirked at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge, then slipped into the bath. The hot water felt divine on his sore muscles, and Peter let his eyes close in tired relief. A couple minutes later, the water level rose suddenly and Peter cracked his eyelids to half-watch Wade easing down to lay next to him. Despite all their recent difficulties, Wade’s presence was a comforting one, and Peter reached out underwater to join their hands. 

“Howz the water feel on your skin?” Peter murmured.

Wade took several beats to respond, voice vague and drifting, “Better even than your hands.”

“Hmmm, I dunno if I like the sound of that,” Peter hummed sleepily, forcing himself to focus enough to take in Wade’s closed eyes and blissed out expression. He looked so peaceful, so content, and so beautiful, that Peter was tempted to reach out and touch that scarred, sensitive skin – to start something that he was in no condition, physically or emotionally, to finish. 

They both dozed like that for an unknown amount of time, until Peter’s fingers and toes had gone soft and wrinkly. Eventually he sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere and of Wade’s breathing, the new tension of Wade’s body, and the fluttering of the lashes over his closed eyes. Though suddenly awake, Peter lay still and catalogued every detail of the sight before him: Wade fisting himself underwater, his strong body held still and his head thrown back, exposing his poor attempt to appear sleeping; the way his lips parted slightly, then bit at the lower one; the way he winced, then panted; his hand disturbing the water on an enthusiastic upstroke. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Wade demanded hoarsely after a moment, eyes still closed, body and voice straining in a way that would’ve normally made Peter hot as Hell. 

“You,” Peter answered softly, truthfully. 

“You wanna join me?” Wade asked hopefully, seeming to brighten at the possibility.

Peter ached that he had to disappoint, his admission quiet and regretful, “No.” 

“Why then? You can’t be getting much out of it,” Wade followed up, coolly and quickly enough that he must’ve expected Peter’s answer. 

“Dunno. I just like looking at you,” Peter admitted, without much thought on the matter. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” Normally, Wade did get off on Peter watching him do something obscene, but they both knew that this situation wasn’t normal. 

“Yes,” came Wade’s strangled reply, his hand picking up speed even as his face tensed further in its effort at restraint, so that Peter could just imagine the ecstatic torment that he must be feeling inside.

“Don’t mind me,” Peter purred seductively. “I like to watch you pleasuring yourself. You’re spectacular, you know, like Burlesque art.”

“Ha!” Wade barked out harshly, followed by a throaty groan. “Don’t tease me. That shit hurts my smooshy parts.”

“I wouldn’t. Believe me, love: even if I can’t join you, this is not a show I want to miss,” Peter assured firmly. “Show me how you touch yourself when I’m asleep.”

“Humiliation porn,” Wade grunted, still jacking himself vigorously. “Our favorite.”

Peter propped himself up on his elbow, making his observation more obvious. “You think letting yourself be seen is humiliating? Have you considered how much worse the situation could be?” 

“Like what?” Wade prompted breathlessly.

Peter sat up lazily and opened the drain. “Well, first I’m gonna let out enough water that I can see your chiseled chest and bulging arms, your washboard abs and straining thighs. Or maybe just drool at the sight of your huge cock.” 

“Hngh! That doesn’t sound too bad!”

“Except that neither of us can touch the other,” Peter teased with a grin. “You’ll have to touch yourself.”

“I’m already touching myself,” Wade replied snottily, giving his massive cock an exaggerated tug for emphasis. 

“You know what I mean, Wade. Touch your chest for me.” The tub had already drained enough that the water level now lapped below Wade’s muscular tits, torso wet and glistening and treating Peter to the show. Wade let go of his dick so that both hands could come up to roughly pinch and twist his nipples, arching slightly into the abuse.

“You’re not being very gentle with yourself,” Peter scolded after several seconds. “The last thing this relationship needs is two people trying to punish themselves.”

Wade’s hands stilled, fingers resting splayed on his pecs. His eyes opened then, taking a moment to adjust before focusing on Peter, but also revealing an open, obedient expression that suggested that he was taking this light exchange more seriously than Peter would’ve thought. “I’ll take whatever role you need me in, baby boy. Just tell me what to do.”

The words made Peter feel flush and powerful, and for a moment he thought his own cock would stir to life. He tried not to be too disappointed when it didn’t do more than throb weakly, and distracted himself with the task before him. “Place your hand back on your dick, gently now.”

The water level was now low enough that Peter got a good view of Wade taking a loose hold of himself, only to pout in dissatisfaction. Peter plugged the tub with a knowing smirk, before turning back to his lover. His voice was teasing, but he hoped Wade also caught the notes of adoration, “Keep that up, slow and easy like you’ve already cum too many times tonight.”

Though Peter couldn’t say he’d ever seen Wade handle himself with much care or restraint, Wade was apparently familiar enough with the scenario to start up a lazy pace. As Peter watched him polish his huge cock, he was keenly aware of Wade’s attention on his own face. “Twist a little at the tip, just like that,” Peter directed, and then, “Squeeze the base. Shit, Wade, you’re so hot like this. You should see yourself.”

Wade hummed lightly, at the sensations or the words or observation, and his eyes fluttered as he struggled to keep them open. Peter knew Wade wouldn’t want to look at himself, but he did have another idea. “Use your free hand to softly brush over your nipples. So light you can barely feel it.”

Wade’s thick fingers returned to his pecs, only this time he carefully skimmed over the skin, just close enough for his rough callouses to catch and press on his water-softened nubs. After his palm passed over his chest a few times, his nips had clearly hardened further and his breath had picked up again. “Don’t stop stroking yourself while you do this. I want you to trace your fingers between your tits, down your abs. God, Wade, you’re so ripped. Can you feel all that hard muscle?” 

Wade’s eyes fixed on Peter’s as he followed his directions, fingers tracing the contours of his well built physique. He didn’t answer the question, but Peter wasn’t going to push just yet. “Hmmm. You look amazing, feeling yourself up like that. Why don’t you give yourself a little reward? You have ten seconds to touch yourself however you want.”

Wade immediately tightened his grip on his cock, his other hand dropping down to roughly roll and tug at his balls. His eyes fell closed as he pulled pleasured sounds from himself. Peter counted down the seconds out loud, excited and having fun despite his lack of physical arousal. “Done. Now ease up on the throttle. You’ve done a great job of listening so far, but things are about to get tougher.”

“I can take it,” Wade assured hoarsely, the hand on his balls going slack and pulling away, while the grip on his cock loosened and slowed. 

“I know you can,” Peter affirmed confidently. “Now, gently place your fingers on your collarbone.” Wade obeyed unquestioningly, so Peter continued calmly, “Can you feel the ridge of your scar?”

Wade froze at the reference, so that he was just cupping himself, his other hand still on his breast. With seeming effort, he turned his face away from Peter, as if he could hide in his own shoulder. Peter couldn’t see much of his expression, but the tension in his body and breathing was obvious. 

“Can you feel it?” Peter repeated quietly, tenderly, trying to coax Wade into trusting him. It was easy to believe, whether true or not, that Wade had been more willing to open up to him before recent events; before the Event. Peter craved that trust, wanted to feel trusted, and needed to be trustworthy, even if he didn’t deserve it. Eventually Wade gave a jerky nod, so Peter followed up with, “Does it feel soft from the water? And, please, I want you to use your words.”

Wade swallowed and answered weakly, “Y-yeah.”

“Using just a hint of pressure, brush your fingers along the length of the mark.” 

Wade only hesitated a beat before clumsily dragging his fingers across his collarbone, breath hitching at the sensation. 

“Did that feel good? Is the skin more sensitive now that it’s wet?”

Wade’s fingers trembled faintly, and only with obvious effort did he admit, “Yes.”

Peter swallowed himself, and for an ultimately disappointing moment he thought his prick might harden; which was why he had to keep to the rules, and not touch, despite the temptation. “Thank you, Wade, I’m glad to hear that. . . Keep stroking your cock, slow and steady. I want your free hand to move down your body, to the scar right below your nipple.” Wade obeyed, but there was still one problem. “Good. Now, before we go any further, I really must insist that you turn towards me. You’re going to cum for me, and I want to watch. Closely.”

Wade moaned piteously and turned his whole body away from Peter, splashing the low water as he fisted his cock with new vigor. 

“Wade! Stop!” Peter demanded, dashing water across the broad, scarred back. It took Wade a couple seconds to slow to a stop, but then he did, panting hard, and Peter felt a little thrill at that obedience. 

“Turn this way. You may close your eyes, if you must, but I’ll be watching. That is non-negotiable. I wanna see everything I cannot touch, naked and exposed. I wanna watch you cum the way you watch me sleep.”

“That’s pretty dirty,” Wade joked nervously as he reluctantly turned, revealing the hard curves of his glistening torso and the long lines of his legs and dick. It was several more seconds before he could raise shy eyes to Peter’s.

“Though this is a tough choice. Do I study the helpless writhing of your sculpted body? Or appreciate the expressive details of your naked face? Or do I just stare at your massive cock until it erupts and you cum all over yourself?” 

“You cheater,” Wade whined, eyes shutting tightly as he started fisting himself again. “You know I’m a sucker for humiliation porn.”

Peter smirked a little wider. “Then show me what I want to see, love. Touch yourself the way I would, as if I were the one pressing into your bulging muscles and tracing my fingertips along your sensitive scars.”

“I wish you would,” Wade pleaded, even as he gracelessly dragged his blunt fingers down the slash of puckered flesh that bisected his ribs. Wade had once explained that there was no rhyme or reason to which scars stuck and which healed over, which growths remained and which disappeared, just that some stayed through each regeneration, while most vanished into nonexistence. Over their later months together, before Doc Ock, Peter had come to know the more permanent skin and scars quite intimately, and had closely tracked the sensitive growths that came and went and transformed his lover’s miraculous body. 

“Keep going,” Peter urged, so that Wade’s fingers skipped to a scar across his abdomen, slowly dragging across it before landing atop a small bump below his belly button, at water level and still soft from its immersion. Wade gasped, then pressed into the sore flesh, stripping his dick faster and harder. Peter drunk him in: his long legs, his taunt abs, his powerful arms, and voluptuous pecs; his giant, tireless cock, being throttled within an inch of its life; but especially his twisted, tumultuous expression. “If I could, I’d fuck you right now. Just throw your legs over my shoulders and show you just how fucking sexy you are. It’s killing me to just watch, when I can see how much you want it.”

“Oh fuck! Peter! I do! I want it!” Wade cried, arching up like a bow as his contorted expression exploded into raw, exposed pleasure. White globs of cum landed on those hard hands and abs, on those thick thighs and in the cooling water. 

Peter smirked for a self-satisfied moment, watching Wade relax and come back to himself. When he thought the timing was right, he asked provocatively, “That was a spectacular performance, Deadpool. Would you let me record you some time? For my private collection?”

Sure enough, Wade shuddered even as he chuckled breathlessly. “No fucking way. Stop it, you wicked sex Chihuahua, you’re killing me.”

Peter did grin at familiarity of the old joke. “Maybe we’ll save that one for a special anniversary.”

After a long, shared moment, Wade teased lightly, “You know, Dr. Parker, you can psychoanalyze me any time you want. You picking up some new tricks from your shrink?”

The question surprised Peter, though only because his own self awareness tended to lag a little. Now that Wade had made the dig, Peter immediately recognized a couple comments that echoed things Dr. Wakka had said to him (“I want you to use your words please!”, and “Thank you, Wade, I’m glad to hear that.”). Peter flushed in embarrassment and the ever present guilt. Shit! Surely it wasn’t appropriate to have crossover between therapy and his sex life? And why did Wade always seem to recognize and understand his base behavior before Peter himself did?! 

Peter sat up fully, then stood up, despite his still achy body, and his got out of the bath. That way he didn’t have to see the other man as he reluctantly admitted, “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right. How Freudian is that?”

“Hey, don’t be down about it,” Wade reassured immediately, also climbing out of the luxurious tub. “That’s my kind of therapy! ♪♬ If you don’t know the thing you’re dealing, oh I can tell you, darling, that it’s sexual healing! ♪♬”

As he started drying off, Peter’s lips had to quirk up slightly. “How has it taken you this long to drop that song into a conversation?”

“I know, right?!” Wade grinned at him, going straight for a big fluffy bathrobe, and Peter was a little sad to see all that wet skin disappear so quickly. “Let’s just say that Whitely grossly abused that song for most of 2007, as well as Let’s Get It On, so now Yellow maintains a strict veto power on all Marvin Gaye songs.”

“I suppose that’s for the best, I can only imagine 2007,” Peter bantered, before going to be bedroom for a pair of boxers. 

Wade just belly flopped into bed with his bathrobe, rubbing his face into the fluffy pillow on “his side” of the bed. “Hmmm. . . I might actually get some sleep tonight.”

Peter took a moment to imagine leaping onto the mattress and wrestling his adorable boyfriend into some aggressive cuddling. Alas, all his exhausted body was up for was carefully crawling into bed, snuggling up to Wade’s comforting bulk, and passing the F out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific WARNINGS: Extremely graphic sex, rough/unsafe sex, sexual dysfunction.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See End of Chapter for specific WARNINGS.

On day Five Wade woke at the god awful hour of 3:mumblemumble. Watching Peter sleep led very quickly to recollections of their recent sexual “successes” [It’s all relative, bitches!], which segued to another round of self-gratification, though not as fun or satisfying as the last one. Still, Wade felt well rested, sated, and optimistic about the future – which was about as good as “happiness” got for Wade before swinging into mania. 

He got up and moved to the living area, where he watched a couple episodes of Walking Dead as he chatted with Jarvis. He quizzed the AI on the Hulk’s containment plan, waxed poetic about Peter, and then got serious, using Jarvis as a sounding board to assess the pros and cons of Sims-mode. Eventually he gave up on Peter and went to the gym, where Captain America himself was wailing on a punching bag. 

[[He’ll never agree.]]

[He might. Our luck has been pretty amazing recently.]

There was no denying that. He was not so deluded as not to realize that his “imprisonment” in Stark Tower was a relatively light punishment for having gone on a psychotic killing spree. Inexplicably, he was even getting along (mostly) with the other Tower residents, which would make it, like, the first time in years that he’d (mostly) gotten along with his neighbors. And now, like magic, his seemingly broken relationship with Peter was on the mend.

As luck would have it, Captain America did agree to a round on the mats, though he refused to attack until Deadpool promised to keep it Crystal Clean. Only then did they really go at it, kicking and punching and grabbing. They were well matched for endurance and flexibility, flipping and spinning and rolling, attacking and dodging each other relentlessly for nearing twenty minutes. But without his tricks and an unclear definition of “clean”, Pool was operating at a handicap, while Rogers had the time he needed to strategize. He left a conspicuous opening on his left side, only to quickly sidestep when Pool attacked, slamming a knee into his stomach. Pool heaved and dropped to his hands and knees, so Rogers tried, predictably, to pin him to the ground. Pool reared backwards, head butting Rogers in the face and flipping them onto their backs, but Rogers held on relentlessly, making this position as bad as the last. When he started squeezing Pool’s neck and shoulders back, he asked, “Do you concede?”

“No way! It’ll take a lot more than a dislocated shoulder to stop me,” Pool grunted, thrashing and fighting against the hold. ““Tis but a scratch!””

[“Just a flesh wound!”]

“Deadpool,” Cap intoned seriously, even as he further restricted the merc’s air flow and movement. “Sparring should end before anything gets dislocated. On anybody. I hope you’re training safely with the others.”

“I could totally elbow you in the balls right now,” Pool wheezed with difficulty, black splotches growing in his vision. “If we weren’t fighting by these pansy-ass rules. . .” 

Then he was just struggling to breathe before everything faded out –

“Hey.”

Pool’s eyes fluttered open, taking in an affectionate, bemused Peter, surrounded by a halo of light and hand resting on Pool’s chest. For a brief second Deadpool was consumed by gratitude, thankful that, after years of abuse and solitude, he finally had someone who cared enough to be there when he was once again denied peace and forced back to life. Except that his body didn’t feel like it usually did when it resurrected. . . 

A second later his memories fitted together, prompting Pool to bolt upright and glance around the ring where he’d been laid out. The gym was empty except for him and Petey. “Did I win? How long was I out?”

Peter grinned at him, shifting to sit cross-legged next to the older man. “Not long, less than three minutes, I’d say. I arrived just in time to watch Captain America totally choke you out, so, no, I don’t think that counts as a win. But it was still kinda rad.”

“I know, right?! I totally have this reoccurring fantasy where Captain America wipes the floor with me and then. . .” 

[Ties our broken, defeated body to a table so that the Avengers can celebrate their victory by running a jeering gangbang on our vulnerable asshole.]

[[Which, duhhh, totally not as hot as it was before we were actually tied to a table and sodomized against our will.]]

Deadpool gave himself a full body shake to brush off such thoughts. “. . . Anyway! That’s another one for the checklist.”

“What checklist? Do tell,” Peter encouraged with a fond smile.

Deadpool grinned back and raised his fist so he could count off his victories, “So far I’ve taken down you, Hawkeye, and Black Widow, and now Cap has run away in defeat. Cap’s super deadly sidekick also promised me a match up soon, so I’m well on my way to having taken out the entire team, plus backup.”

“Watch it, Pool. Your historical revisionism is bordering on delusional,” Peter snarked as he climbed to his feet. 

[YOU TALKIN’ TO MEEE?!]

Only Deadpool grabbed his wrist and pulled Peter down into his lap. “And did I hallucinate our fight yesterday?” he teased, nuzzling Peter’s ear as his large hands possessively grabbed Peter’s butt cheeks. “Cuz I have some pretty vivid memories of pounding your sweet, sweet pucker into the mat. Are you sure you can’t still feel it?”

[I can still feel it: the heat, the sweat, the cum; that too-tight, too-dry grip dragging up and down our dick; skin rubbing together roughly, trying to break open and fuse their flesh together.]

Peter pressed his face to the material of Pool’s mask, even as he pushed back into Pool’s hands. Deadpool took that as an invitation to knead those amazing glutes, to squeeze and spread that tempting flesh through the thin workout shorts. Peter moaned in quiet encouragement, so Deadpool moved one hand to Peter’s hip, while the other slipped under his waistband and straight into his crack. Peter choked back a louder moan as Deadpool pressed a blunt finger to his tightly closed rim, only to repeat his question, “Can you still feel me, Peter?”

Deadpool rubbed along that dry opening, forcing out Peter’s breathless answer, “I’m – unh! – mostly healed, you – ah! – better renew your claim.”

“Fuck yeah, baby boy,” Pool agreed. “Lube’s in the bathroom. Right now, against the wall.”

Peter yanked his mask off and attacked his mouth. For a moment Wade thought they’d be fucking in the gym again, despite the high odds of being interrupted this time; except then Peter’s hands and lips gentled, leading the older man into a slower, more mellow make out session. After a couple minutes, Peter pulled away, mouth wet and red and face attractively flushed. “Later, definitely. But before you distracted me, I was gonna work out. The only reason you got anywhere yesterday is cuz I’m, like, dangerously out of shape. That’ll have to change before I get back into the Spidey spandex.” 

[AAA-HAHAHA! A-HAHAHA! Hahaha!]

“Whitey thinks that’s the funniest thing in the world. Heh heh,” Pool chuckled as he dragged his hood back on. 

“Of course he does,” Peter replies dryly. “The suffering of others is hysterical.” 

[[Burn! Good one, Petey!]] Yellow’s had, blessedly, also been in a better mood since Pool and Peter clicked again. 

“How ‘bout this,” Deadpool offered with a Cheshire cat grin that was probably visible through his mask. “I’mma go rub out a quick one, but I’ll be back in time to laugh at you on the treadmill. Then I’ll chase you through the obstacle course.”

Apparently neither of them could stop smiling, and Peter agreed, “Sounds like fun.”

! ^_^ !

The obstacle course had been a resounding success. The crawl spaces were tight enough that Spiderman’s webs were of minimal use, better balancing their abilities. Spiderman still had obvious advantages, while Deadpool had more creative (sometimes borderline impossible) moves. It was a thrill to hunt and chase and expend some of that constantly pooling energy. Pursuing a target at breakneck speed was something that Pool was good at, and took great pleasure in.

After the gym and showers, Wade and Peter refueled in their kitchen, where Peter said he was going to call Empire University about reenrolling. Though Peter’s education was of less interest to Wade than his fitness, the merc took both as positive signs of Peter’s wellbeing. He was just so very grateful that they’d reconnected sexually, in whatever manner, convinced that it was the most important pillar in their relationship. Wade felt like he could sit at this table and listen to Peter talk about the future forever, it was such a relief just to have a future.

[No, we cannot listen to this blah blah forever. I’m bored to tears already. Can we blow some shit up already?]

By the time Peter indicated that he wanted to stop by Banner’s lab, Whitey's complaining had gotten rather loud and demanding, so Wade invited himself along. “Brilliant idea! There’s something I gotta ask him too.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” 

Peter led the way, and even got a friendly, if mumbled greeting from Banner before the physicist looked up to see his other guest. “Uh, Deadpool. Hi. I hope you’ve settled in. Is Stark treating you alright?”

[Ooo! Small breakable shit!]

Deadpool couldn’t help it, all the delicate equipment teased and tantalized him; he had to fold his arms across his chest to prevent himself from touchtouchtouchbreak –

“He’s been shockingly distant. I must be losing my scientific appeal.”

“That. . . sounds like a good thing,” Banner offered distractedly, already turning his attention back to the expensive looking microscope thingy. He had some balls to turn his back on the spastic clown in the China shop.

Deadpool shrugged, a tight, constricted movement due to his trapped hands. “Pro’ly is. My appeal only ever catches the attention of creeps anyway. I’m basically a spicy lil Lolita, got the dress and everything.”

[Young Wade, already sexy despite being underdeveloped –]

[[Shut up. You only like that fantasy because we’ve never felt good or innocent enough to be something capable of being defiled. Remember that next time you bring that one out of the spank bank!]]

“He actually does,” Peter confirmed to Banner, with a combination of humor and exasperation.

“You’re not curious, Doc-tor Banner?” Pool taunted, voice low and smooth. “There aren’t a few. . . tests maybe, that I could help with?”

Finally Banner gave up on his real work, straightening and turning to pay proper attention to the masked menace. “No, Deadpool. Curious, maybe, but there are absolutely no tests that I want to perform on you.”

Pool studied him for a moment, trying to detect deception. When he failed, he deepened his voice even further, to purr seductively “You know, that’s too bad, cuz I totally wanna take you for a test run. Or Hulk rather. You know that poor guy barely gets any action. I’d even be willing to wear the Lolita dress for the occasion.” 

[Can. You. Just. IMAGINE?! My mind is broken!]

[[Indeed it is.]]

He let it sound like a come-on for a moment, while he savored the disbelief on Peter’s face. “In the sparring ring, of course. Were you thinking of something else?” 

Even the usually unflappable Banner wore an appalled expression. “No, just. . . No. To all of it.”

And, cuz Pool always had to push it just a little farther, he continued, “I bet Hulk likes playing with puny humans!” Then Peter was manhandling Pool out of the lab, as Pool continued to spout off at the mouth, “What about what Hulk wants for once?”

Peter didn’t even bother with a reprimand, shoving Pool down the hallway as he turned back to the lab, leaving Deadpool to chuckle to himself as he made his way to the elevator. Once there, however, he was back to the same old dilemma. What to do with too much time and the unwanted expectation of good behavior? 

[I’m bored, I wanna blow shit up!]

“Jarv?” Pool asked a little sheepishly. “Is Barton in the Tower?”

“Negative. He and Ms. Romanov have gone to SHIELD.”

[Let’s blow shit up!!!]

Pool swallowed, trying to gauge how close he was to spazzing out. “What about, uh, Sam Wilson?”

“He is on an outing with Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes.”

[[Which, of course, we wouldn’t have been invited to even if we weren’t on lock down.]]

[BLOW SOME SHIT UP RIGHT NOW!!!]

“Fuck!” Deadpool cursed in frustration, grabbing his head, and pacing a tight circle around the elevator. He needed some options if he was gonna channel this accelerating freight train of mania.

“Mr. Deadpool. Do you need assistance? Should I call Mr. Parker?”

[[NO!]] “No!” he barked, feeling a stab of panic at that idea of interrupting Peter. He needed to prove he wasn’t a burden: that he could take care of himself and cope with being alone. Pool took deep breaths, mind spinning as he asked, “Can you just talk to me for a few minutes? Please.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis reassured calmly. “Is there anything you wish to talk about or may I pick the topic?”

“Whatever you want,” Pool conceded, as his jittery fingers pressed the button for his floor.

“I wish to understand the appeal of pizza, from a visceral standpoint.”

[You have come to the right person, my friend!]

Whitey was able to waxy poetic about cheese, tomato sauce, sausage, pepperoni and other toppings for quite some time, well after having returned to the apartment. Jarvis eventually steered the conversation towards the idea of cooking, prompting Deadpool to have the “original idea” to cook a casserole for Peter. The AI then talked him through this process, distracting and occupying him for another twenty minutes. By the time the dish was in the oven, Deadpool felt stable enough to face his quarters alone. 

The silence made it impossible to ignore reality any longer. For the first time since he’d fucked Peter in the workout room, it crossed his mind that he still might not make it through the week, that even luxury and sex couldn’t make him happy and docile in a gilded cage. He was too broken, too feral; even if he’d been genuinely invited to live at Stark Tower, he wouldn’t have been able to stay. He simply couldn’t live up to communal standards of behavior. When left alone for too long, he broke things and killed people.

Deadpool was still pretty wound up by the time Peter returned to their suite. In the last half hour he’d taken to carving “DP WAS HERE” on walls and furniture, just to piss off Stark and live down to expectations. 

[[Looks like it might’ve been a difficult session with Dr. Wakka.]]

[Let’s get in his face and distract him with sex!]

[[Flawless plan.]]

“You’re back,” Deadpool growled as he stalked up to Peter in the living room, wearing black jeans and a red shirt that probably cost a hundred times more than his usual thrift store purchase. His soft mask and the knife in his hand completed his ensemble. Peter actually looked wary of him for a moment, so Wade quickly tugged off his hood while blindly hurling the knife into the decorative dummy’s chest. 

[LET’S FUCK!!!]

“Okay, so that was impressive,” Peter muttered grumpily, taking a long look at the battered statue before turning to Wade. 

“I hope Dr. Wacko didn’t psychoanalyze you out of wanting to fuck,” Wade blurted. “Cuz I’m, like, not down with this whole being trapped thing and I’m basically climbing up the walls here. I’m either gonna bury into your ass or into the fucking wall!”

“Nice to see that the romance isn’t dead,” Peter replied sarcastically, striking his regrettably familiar Annoyed Face, though his body language spoke of openness and invitation. “But thanks for asking about my session. It was basically a Best Of compilation of my failures, from killing Uncle Ben to killing Gwen to killing Massacre. But just cuz I feel like a monster doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be up for sex, right?”

[[A smarter person would have a lot to work with here. A better person would talk about this.]]

Wade crowded up into Peter’s space, grabbing for those taunting hips and using his grip to draw them close, to brush their faces together and breathe the same warm air. “Monsters love to fuck,” his gravely voice seduced. “How else can they forget their monstrosity?” 

[Ooo, ooo! I got this! GUNS! Better yet, sex AND guns!]

Peter’s strained face fell into complete misery before he pressed hard into Wade’s shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around the bigger man’s torso. “It hurts so much!” 

[[I know, baby boy. I know.]]

“I know.” Peter’s words stung at a hollow wound, but it only made Wade more desperate to be part of Peter’s pain, for them to suffer together. “[I can make it hurt more.]”

Peter inhaled sharply and rippled against Wade, revealing that he’d said the right thing.

[[Depending on your definition of the term right.]] 

Wade shoved Peter down on the couch, parting and pushing between those limber legs. He crushed their lips and bodies together, pain and pleasure, greed and desperation mixing together dangerously. Their saliva slick tongues battled, bones and muscle rubbing together until Wade dragged his calloused fingers up Peter’s abdomen, along the modest swell of his pecs, to sharply pinch his nipples. Peter gasped, just as Wade twisted and yanked at the nubs like a master puppeteer. Peter moaned and jerked in response to the harsh treatment until Wade literally ripped his shirt apart. 

“Shit, Wade! Yesss, give me what I deserve!”

Wade attacked his chest, biting at his tits even as he pressed his body between Peter’s, feeling the younger man’s erection against his stomach. Something about those words inflamed him with anger.

[So you want to be a victim, do you?!] 

Wade pulled at Peter’s pants, which with great effort they finally managed to strip from his body. Peter hadn’t even settled before Wade was grabbing and pinching those delectable ass cheeks. “Turn over, boycunt. You’re gonna get just what you deserve!” 

Peter turned to kneel on the floor, trembling body bent over the couch and ass exposed. Wade didn’t give him more than a second to think about it before his large palm landed perfectly on that bared curve, clapping loudly. “ANGH!”

[[I bet the Mister Martyr Complex doesn’t even understand why he deserves this.]]

Wade followed it up with another hard smack, and Peter cried out even as he spread his legs. Wade took a deep breath, forcing himself to hold back as he demanded, “Why are you being punished?”

Peter didn’t answer for so long that Wade slapped his ass again, forcefully enough to illicit a grunt. Then he groped the heated flesh, rubbing and massaging the muscles possessively. “Answer me.”

Peter whimpered pathetically before confessing into the couch, “For raping you.”

[WHAT?!]

“WRONG!” Wade smacked Peter’s ass so hard his own hand stung, and Peter’s body lurched forward with a cry of pain. “How’re you still caught up on that? It’s not the first time I’ve been tricked or violated, and it wasn’t even you anyway! What’s a little rape between lovers, amirite? But you wanna know what’s harder to fucking forgive? You leaving me! You telling me you love me, that we’ll be partners, and making me a stupid cunt for fucking believing it! That was YOU! You left and I turned back into a monster.”

Wade’s open palm hit that reddened flesh again, with a satisfying impact, then again and again; until the sound of Peter’s miserable cries, and the sight of his pale quivering thighs, deflated Wade's rage and passion. His hands grew softer then, gently partying Peter’s tender cheeks and petting his back and thighs. Head hanging low, Peter trembled silently through his ministrations, until Pool eventually remembered that he was supposed to be hurting the younger man. Only he didn’t want to hurt Peter, he wanted to hurt with Peter.

[Get your fucking act together! We better deliver here if we want to show Spidey we have any value.]

“I have a dirty idea for a role play,” Peter announced abruptly, putting an end to Wade’s soft caresses by rolling quickly to his feet. He sauntered provocatively into their bedroom, throwing a little come-hither glance over his shoulder. “Interested?”

[Hell yeah!]

Wade followed, with equal parts trepidation and excitement. Peter had a dangerous edge to him even when he wasn’t teetering on that edge, it’s what made him so fun to play with. “Always, baby kink. Where you go, I go.”

[[Down the rabbit hole!]]

Peter crawled onto the mattress, pink buttocks swaying obscenely until he finally twisted around to recline among the bedding like some lazy Renaissance model. Wade felt his gaze heavily, as Peter watched him undress through hooded eyes. “You have more to punish me for. Something you don’t know about.”

Wade shivered involuntarily, spooked even as he stripped off his shirt, then looked up to meet Peter’s gaze. “You gonna enlighten the readers?”

“I let Steve fuck me earlier,” Peter challenged, watching his lover expectantly. 

Wade’s stomach clenched and his throat tightened; indeed his entire body froze in the process of unbuttoning his pants.

[[What the fuck? This is new and ugly.]]

“He reminds me of you, with his bulging muscles and big cock,” Peter continued calmly, stroking his flagging cock. “In fact, I thought of you as he stretched me out and filled me with cum. How could I say no? He’s Captain America.”

Jealousy had Wade ripping his pants off. This was the role play, right?

“Now I’m so disgusting, and ashamed,” Peter admitted quietly, breaking eye contact as he lay back completely, knees still splayed. “Who could want Captain America’s sloppy seconds?”

[I’m a huge Cap fan! I’d fuck into his spunk any day!]

[[Fuck that shit! Peter is ours!]]

Finally naked, Wade dove into the bed and crawled up between Peter’s legs, rolling one knee up and back to better access that bewitching entrance. Without any hesitation, Wade’s fingers dove into the tender cheeks, his middle finger dipping between to press lightly against that dry, clenched pucker. He’d known that it was just talk, but he was still relieved, the surge of jealousy still fresh in his blood when Peter moaned and pushed back on his digits.

“What a little slut,” Wade growled, hands growing hard as they roughly groped the heated cheeks. “Not even Captain Fucking America was enough for you. What makes you think I can satisfy your filthy, insatiable hole?”

“Shit, Wade! No one else can do the things you do to me.” Peter writhed and squirmed under Wade’s ministrations, and Wade was briefly hypnotized by the sight of that malleable flesh, playing peek-a-boo with Peter’s little pucker. He forced himself away with a jerk, clumsily reaching for the lube, and a moment later he was back between Peter’s splayed legs, and Peter was jacking himself harshly, a little desperately. 

Wade slicked up his cock quickly, then pushed Peter’s leg back up so that he could smear the rest of the lube into Peter’s hole. Not more than a fingertip had pressed in before Peter grabbed his wrist. “Just the minimum.”

[[Cuz he wants us to hurt him, REMEMBER?]]

[Stop being a pussy! Man up and fuck him til he can’t walk straight!]

“Easy now,” Wade mumbled, unsure who he was even talking to. He pressed two fingers into Peter, through the stuttering grip of his rim, then twisted in as far as he could reach. Peter’s breath hitched but he pushed back against the intrusion. Wade pistoned in and out again, trying to stretch his lover as quickly as possible. “You’ve been a faithless whore, Peter. Spreading those tasty legs for that self-righteous pretty boy! Would you let just anyone fuck you these days?”

“I’m letting you fuck me,” Peter taunted and held his knees to his chest is clear invitation. “I’d let you do whatever you want to me.”

[As if you could fucking stop us now!]

[[This is not going to end well, maybe we should – ]]

[You can fuck off now, Yellow. I got this.]

“As if you could stop me,” Wade shoved his fingers back in one last time, nailing Peter’s prostate and making him cry out loudly. Peter was still relatively tight, the stretching borderline insufficient for Wade’s size, but that’s what they were going for, right? The Accused, Boys Don’t Cry, Kids, Girl With The Dragon Tattoo . . .

Wade shuffled closer on his knees, so that his thighs tilted Peter’s ass up into the air, legs bent all the way back, framing Peter’s head where it was thrown back in submission. It was a delectable sight, no doubt, and yet everything about this encounter felt off, and it was constantly distracting. It was perturbing so see Peter behave so unselfconsciously and with such utter lack of inhibitions. Until yesterday Peter had generally shied away from exhibitionism in favor of modesty, while their adventures in power play had always been safe and well defined because Peter had assured responsible boundaries. Now Wade had no idea where the limits were, how he was supposed to take Peter’s words, or what he was supposed to make of this change in this partner. It was dark, dangerous, and titillating, sparking both lust and fear. “I’m gonna nail your sloppy cunt to the floor!”

Peter moaned wantonly as Wade’s cockhead wedged bluntly in between his cheeks. “Do it, stuff my filthy hole!” 

[Gonna stuff you like the goddamn Christmas turducken!]

Wade eased his hips forward, and for long seconds their bodies battled each other with friction and physics, before finally Peter’s hole stretched open enough to accommodate the wide circumference of Wade’s blunt cockhead. Once past the twitching rim, the invading member only had to maintain a patient push, burrowing into Peter’s gradually yielding body. Peter whined, long and pained, as Wade brought his palm around to massage a tender ass cheek, coaxing that tight rim to stretch just a little more, that full hole to swell just a bit more.

“Fuuuck!” Peter groaned, grinding into the intrusion, though it had to hurt like a flaming poker in his guts. “Keep going! Harder!”

So Wade pulled out roughly, before either of them was ready, then plowed back in. The lube did its job, easing the friction, but still everything was too tight, and tense, and constricted, so that Wade had no choice but to ram, to pummel, to force his way in. And the noises Peter made were inhuman, moans and and cries that echoed surely mimicked the sounds of Wade’s own violation. 

[[Don’t really hurt him! We don’t want this.]] Yellow’s persistent concern was damn distracting, and Wade could feel it even when there were no boxes to read.

[Hurt him. He deserves it. Think of Spidey putting out for Captain Fucking America, letting Rogers go where before only we’ve been permitted. Can’t you just see Spidey? Moaning beautifully on gorgeous Cap’s glorious cock, losing control completely and creating a pornographic collage of muscled perfection.]

[[What could Peter possibly get from us that he couldn’t get from that?]]

“Harder,” Peter gasped, over and over, “Harder. HARDER!” Until Wade, in a frenzy of spiraling lust and anxiety, couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“Shut the fuck up! I’m the boss here!” Wade reared back and pulled out, only to manhandle Peter onto his hands and knees, then plunge back so fast and hard that they both cried out. Wade immediately started up a punishing rhythm, pelvis snapping fast and hard; plowing into Peter’s hole so forcefully that his hip bones dug bruises into Peter’s abused cheeks; pulling out so fast that Peter’s entire body jerked back with the movement. “Does it fucking hurt? It better fucking hurts! You wanna screw Captain America?! Be my fucking guest! But he gets MY sloppy seconds, capiche?! You were MINE first, cockslut!” 

“Yes! Yours!” Peter’s neck bent low, his entire body fucked into submission. Wade looked down to watch his cock parting those firm cheeks, plunging into that perfect ass; like a pole bisecting the top of a pretty pink heart. Wade watched closely, and used his thrusts to chase the most enthusiastic responses until he was hammering Peter’s prostate with each plunge, rewarded with weedy, drawn out moans and desperate gasps for air. Neither of them was going to last much longer.

Perhaps he got too into the carnal satisfaction, forgot the goal, cuz then Peter bucked violently back against him and growled in obvious frustration, “Come the fuck on, Wade! Stop holding back, killer! Fucking hurt me!”

[SHUT THIS PUSSYBITCH UP!]

A spike of raging adrenaline had Wade surging forward forcefully, cock burrowing to the hilt even as he slammed against Peter’s body and bit hard into the meat of his shoulder. 

“AAAHHH!!!” Peter’s entire body tensed and jerked with the force of his pain-spiked orgasm, but Wade held on tight with his teeth and kept riding his ass even as he collapsed bonelessly into the mattress. The angle was awkward but Wade plowed his hole a few more times before filling it with hot, cauterizing cum. His entire body went rigid as pleasure exploded from his cock, shooting through his pelvis, up his spine to his head, then finally to all his limbs. Only when his muscles eased and his mind cleared did his jaw unclench and release the bleeding flesh, eliciting a quiet, broken whimper from Peter. 

Wade had collapsed on the smaller man, cock softening inside his wet orifice, and he snuggled into his lover’s sweat-slick back even as he tentatively licked the blood from his lips and teeth. He didn’t particularly appreciate the taste of blood, but he wasn’t queasy about it either. He’d certainly swallowed a lot of his own over the years. Peter’s blood held a similar metallic flavor, but was perhaps sweeter? Wasn’t everything about his lover sweeter?

[[Not this desperation for pain.]]

Wade pressed light kisses to the knobs of his neck, then dragged his lips over the shoulder wound. Peter moaned softly, then admitted quietly into the mattress, “I like this. Crushed under your weight and pinned by your dick. At your mercy.” 

“Am I not merciful?” Wade rasped into Peter’s ear.

“Hmmm. Joaquin Phoenix. Does he wanna fuck me too?”

Wade frowned unseen, disgruntled that they were apparently still playing the promiscuity game. Wasn’t Captain America enough? Joaquin Phoenix was only moderately saner and better looking than he was! With a snort he pulled back, easing his cock through Peter’s loose, reddened rim; he tried to be careful, but Peter groaned anyway. Anger flared in Wade and he slapped those pink cheeks hard before standing. Isn’t that what Peter wanted? To make Wade angry enough to take it out on him? 

[Spidey’s trying to provoke us into raping him. He thinks he deserves it for what Doc Ock did to us.]

[[I . . . didn’t think you remembered that.]]

[I don’t, but it’s obvious from everyone’s deliciously twisted behavior.]

[[That’s very insightful. Color me shocked.]]

[Nothing insightful about it, I just recognize the behavior. Why do you think I’ve been getting off on pain, punishment, and degradation for the last decade?]

“Fuck, put a ball gag in it already,” Wade mumbled as he stumbled blindly for the bathroom. He studiously ignored the mirror as he washed his hands and face and dick, then after a minute of talking himself down, he glanced up at his reflection. He looked like a nightmare, as always, scarred and pock-marked and hairless; but also so very miserable, downturned at the eyes and mouth. For once disgust was not his primary reaction to his appearance, but instead pity. Who could expect this pathetic, abused creature to successfully navigate such a complex relationship, one practically defined by transgression and now marred by so much trauma? 

[[Only someone equally fucked up.]]

“Jarvis?” Wade whispered, frozen in front of his desolate reflection.

“Sir?”

“At what point do you contact Stark?”

“When the exchange is no longer consensual or becomes life threatening.” 

Wade nodded, sighing and turning away from his haunted eyes. “Mr. Wilson. In the interests of clarity, can you confirm that you are a consenting party?” 

“Ha!” Wade barked in wide-eyed disbelief. “Of course I am. I’m the one fucking him up!”

“Understood, sir. I apologize for any offense. The sensors had detected signs of distress, but this can be difficult to distinguish from other states of heightened arousal.”

[[You’re telling me!]]

“I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

Ruffled, Wade exited the bathroom hesitantly and with significant trepidation. Peter was still on the bed, but had turned onto his back and was fingering his bite mark with a complicated expression on his face. As soon as Wade approached, he smiled weakly. “You okay?”

[[Are we ever?! Peter – ]]

“Always. By Bon Jovi.” Wade smirked, wide and hollow. He was already twofaced, two-headed, two fucking people; a fucking jigsaw puzzle of modes and boxes and symptoms. What did it matter if he split again? If all his sharp edges ground into sand?

Peter didn’t even seem to notice, eying his naked body, and Wade imagined him picturing all the ways Wade could use that body to punish and hurt him. It made him feel disgusting, despite the appreciative expression on Peter’s face. The younger man batted his Bambi eyes and asked seductively, “Up for another round?”

[Fuck yes.] [[Hell no.]]

“If you wanna do all the work,” Wade ground out with bad grace. He wasn’t hard at all, but apparently Peter wasn’t daunted by the challenge.

[He knows how little it takes to get us going. Spidey can lead us around by our dick any day!]

Peter rolled over and off the bed, landing gracefully on his knees. Looking at Wade, he licked his lips lasciviously and offered, “Lemme see what I can do with that dino dick of yours.” 

Peter grabbed Wade’s hips and guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, then he took exactly as long as required to mouth and lick, kiss and suck and stroke the heat back into the tireless appendage. 

“Fucking hell, Spidey,” Wade panted, as he eventually succumbed to Peter’s thorough attentions. “You’ve become such a good little cocksucker.”

Peter hummed in agreement as Wade’s cockhead hit the back of his throat, muscles constricting around it reflexively; and then a moment later, those muscles swallowed, massaging Wade’s dick down his windpipe. Wade moaned then and gripped the sheets, as Peter forced his cock farther and farther down his throat, until he was gagging on it, backing off only to breathe raggedly and try again. 

After a couple minutes, Peter pulled off and grabbed Wade’s hands placing them in his scalp even as he nipped at Wade’s wrist and rasped, “Fuck my mouth, Pool, make me take it all. Choke me on that last inch that I can never swallow.”

[[No fucking way.]] 

[DO IT! Force ourselves onto him, force every body cavity to open wide enough for Ol’ Reliable to take his pleasure! How many ways must he ask us to penetrate and violate him?! Give him what he wants already!]

Anger and distress spiked, and Wade snapped, “I’m gonna use you like the horny cunt you are!” 

Then he yanked Peter back towards his crotch, watching closely as several inches disappeared easily into Peter’s mouth. His cockhead hit the back of Peter’s throat, and then was carefully swallowed further, and Wade couldn’t help the long, gravelly moan of pleasure that escaped. Resistance and pressure increased until Peter inevitably gagged, and only then did Wade tighten his grip on Peter’s hair, using the spasms to slowly force his dick down that wet tunnel. A handful of seconds later, those last inches of dick disappeared through Peter’s lips, Peter’s nose smashing up against Wade’s hairless pelvis and his entire body trembling and shuddering from the strain. 

Wade held Peter’s head tightly in place for a long, punishing moment, even after Peter reflexively started struggling for air. Finally he pulled Peter off, giving him just enough time to gasp desperately for breath before fucking all the way back in. Peter made a satisfying sound of distress, so Wade pulled out and thrust back in, again and again, faster and easier as spit and precum lubricated Peter’s throat. In fact, wet bodily fluids were smearing all over Wade’s naked pelvis, dripping down his balls, and Wade wished he had a better view of Peter’s sloppy, slutty face hole. 

[This fuck toy is MINE! Tattoo PROPERTY OF DRAGONPOOL right on its neck!]

[[Do you like playing Doc Ock in this quasi-rape scene?]]

The thoughts were like twin bolts of lightening at night, revealing dark and ominous clouds on the horizon of Wade’s mind. A spike of fear shot through him as he suddenly realized how close he was to being overwhelmed by his own memories of abuse, at the hands of Otto Octavius, Nathan Summers and Typhoid Mary, of Dr. Killbrew and his father. Flames erupted through his mind, fueled by his distressed panic and burning all thoughts to ash. Wade roughly yanked Peter off his cock, bracing for the brutal SNAP –

[[OXYGEN! Swithswitchswitch!]]

– his psyche abruptly and jarringly shifted gears into a much smoother Sims-mode. The world reoriented along rational, unemotional lines, so quick that Wade had to shake off the vertigo. Yet, mere seconds after the near-meltdown, he felt in complete control of himself and the situation. Peter was staring up at him, breathing hard through red and swollen lips, expression utterly wrecked beneath the smear of bodily fluids; but it wasn’t the turn on it would’ve been a few seconds ago. Wade released his hold on Peter’s scalp like he was dropping a mike, hair falling through his fingers like sand. 

“No,” Wade refused firmly, voice cold and distant to his own ears. “I’m not doing this.” 

He stood quickly, swinging a long leg over Peter’s kneeling form in order create physical distance as well. He was halfway to the door when Peter’s hoarse voice called him back, “Wait! What the Hell?”

Wade stopped, forcing a steady inhalation as he turned just enough to see Peter rise to his feet in his peripheral vision. “I’m too messed up to be playing like this, with no rules or discussion. I can’t tell where the violation fantasy ends and the rape punishment begins. . . So no. I’m not gonna hurt you again. Shoot me in the head for sounding like you, but it’s not safe, sane, and consensual, is it? Definitely not safe, since we’re risking our fragile fucking minds. Which kinda covers the whole sanity issue, never exactly MY strong suit anyway. Bringing us to our favorite topic, consent.”

Peter sat heavily on the bed, looking humiliated and miserable, tugging at his hair in distress. “Screw you,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, closing his eyes against tears. “You always say how you’re up for anything, until it’s something that I NEED. Must be a real power trip to be the responsible one for once, while I completely fall apart!”

“Riiight. Cuz of the two of us, I’m the one prone to power trips and taking the other apart,” Wade snapped sarcastically. “The situation was fucked up before, and now it’s so completely FUBAR that I barely know up from down. So ex-cuuuse me for trying to protect myself, and you. Like Meatloaf said, I’d do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”

Peter twisted away to curl up on the bed, back towards Wade. “Thanks a million for making me feel like complete shit,” came his sniffling, petulant reply. “I guess it’s all my fault, just like everything else.”

[[PETER! Fucking fix this, Wade!]]

Wade studied Peter’s back, spine too prominent from recent weight loss, and the older man was gradually overcome by a hollow melancholy, fading out of Sims-mode. He approached the bed with extreme caution. Once there, he grabbed the comforter and drug it over Peter, settling crossed-legged behind him. Peter’s palms were pressed into his eye sockets, his body still radiating tension and distress. Wade placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know what to say to fix this.” Wade stroked his fingertips lightly along the width of Peter’s shoulders. 

Peter chuckled brokenly, pulling his palms away to reveal his miserable, contorted expression. “It’s not yours to fix, I’m the one who’s broken.”

Wade’s calloused fingers inched up to the nape of Peter’s neck, stroking and soothing. “I’ve been saying the same thing for a lot longer and you’ve always pieced me together again. What can I do to help? I’ll do anything.”

Peter considered the question briefly with a tragically downturned lip, before hesitantly requesting, “Could you sing me something?”

Wade grinned with affection, genuinely touched by a request that he could actually fulfill. Whitey, of course, was tickled pink, and suggested a dozen inappropriate options before Yellow made the selection for them. 

“Jarby, could you play These Days, by Jackson Browne, minus the vocals?” A beat later a guitar started strumming its sad intro, followed at the right point by Wade’s gravely voice. . “♪♬ And I had a lov-er, it’s so hard to risk an-other these days. Theeese days. . . ♪♬” 

Watching Peter’s face, Wade could tell that he was listening, and that he had chosen as wisely as Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade. “♪♬ Now if I seem afraid to live the life I’ve made in song-g-g, well it’s just that I’ve been losing so long-g-g. . . Theeese days. Don’t con-front me with my failures, I have not forgotten them. ♪♬”

By the time Wade came to the end and fell silent, Peter’s body had relaxed noticeably, his face sad but not tortured, and he had joined their hands together. Wade marveled at the brunette’s internal and external beauty, burning bright even when he was so beaten down. 

“That was nice,” Peter spoke hoarsely after a moment, though he kept his eyes closed. “I’ve always liked your voice.”

Wade squeezed his hand, encouraged. “It’s pretty much all that's left of the old me.”

After a pause, Peter ventured another meek request, “What. . . were you like back before the serum? If you don’t mind me asking.”

[Hot.] [[Lonely.]]

“Still a monster,” Wade answered decisively. Life had been easier then, but he’d been no happier; his spotty memories were dominated by feelings of worthlessness and isolation even in a crowd. “Merc, soldier, whatever gig would let me be the best killer I could be. But I was, you know, all charming and shit, and a lot better at pretending to be “normal”. Plus, not to toot my own horn, but I was a bit of a looker, if you can believe that, so that helped matters. I haven’t always been a total basketcase loser.”

“You aren’t a monster or a loser, Wade,” Peter assured tiredly, still turned away with eyes only cracked open. “We’re both just a little. . . damaged.”

[♪♬ Damaged. Damaged. I thought that I should let you know: that my heart is damaged, damaged. And you can blame the one before. . . ♪♬]

Wade reclined on the mattress and curled up behind Peter, wrapping an arm and the comforter around him. “You’re gonna come back from all this, Petey, I promise. You’re smart and brave and kind, like one of these mythical Good people I’ve heard so much about. You’ve got so much going for you, and lots of people who care for and support you.” Wade rested his forehead against Peter’s neck and murmured, “You’re not broken, not really. No the way I am. You’re gonna be just fine.” 

Peter gripped his arm tight, but didn’t say anything. After long minutes, his breathing eventually slowed as he drifted off to sleep, and Wade just watched him, head full of thoughts and songs and voice boxes. 

[[He’s not gonna stop feeling guilty while we’re here as a constant reminder of what happened. He’s gonna keep seeking punishment from us.]]

[I wanna fucking know when we grew such a huge VA-JAYJAY?! Yesterday we tore his ass up like a gangsta, and today we’re pussying out?! I’m embarrassed to be part of this unholy trinity.]

When the insider bickering got too much, Wade snuck out of bed, dressed in the leathers that had magically appeared in the closet, and headed for the elevator. It was relatively early by his owlish standards, and he had no intention of sleeping tonight, as his state would surely bring nightmares, but the call of fresh air and freedom promised a degree of peace. Once on the roof, Deadpool walked out to the edge of Stark’s landing pad and hung his legs over the ledge. It was a very, very long drop. If he jumped, there’d be so little left intact that it would probably take twenty plus hours for a complete regeneration. 

“A suicide attempt won’t look good on the final assessment,” Stark’s voice warned. 

Deadpool didn’t even turn around as he listened to the man’s barefoot approach. “Not gonna jump. And even if I did, it can’t be a suicide attempt since I knew I’d survive. Amirite?” 

“Hunh. That argument sounds familiar. I think I might’ve said the same thing to Pepper.” A moment later, Stark crouched down then joined Pool in dangling his legs over the ledge. Deadpool did glance up then, to take in this unexpectedly understanding version of Tony Stark, one that was apparently fascinated by the dark street far below. 

“She’s a fox. And a firecracker. Definitely a keeper, if you ask me,” Deadpool advised.

[I’d bang her, twist all those skinny limbs around me like a spider.]

[[You are so fucking stupid.]]

“As much as I don’t value your opinion, and would never ask you for advice on my love life, in this case, you happen to be right on all counts.”

“Thanks for getting me my leathers, bee tee dubs. A man feels better in a good suit.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Stark declared with exaggerated shock and admiration. A beat later he was more serious, “I sent people to retrieve your and Peter’s belongs from your apartments. There wasn’t very much that was salvageable.” 

It sounded like Stark was trying to segue into a profound conversation, so Deadpool got straight to the point, “Is there some purpose to your company, or did you just want to shit on my alone time?”

Then he cautiously leaned over the ledge, seeing how far out he could go before his balance tipped and he had to jerk his weight backwards. Stark didn’t reply for a long moment, eventually prompting Deadpool to settle back and take in his unusually silent companion. 

The billionaire looked tired and worn, frowning unhappily as he gazed out over the City. Finally he sighed and offered up a serious answer, “I’d rather die than be you.”

Deadpool snorted loudly and turned back to the City lights. “Yeah, me too, asshole. But it’s not like I got a lota options here.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to be an asshole for once, just to explain my problem with you.”

[♪♬ You’re an A-S-S-H-O-L-E, don’t you try to blame it on me. You deserve all the credit, cuz you’re an asshole tonight! ♪♬]

“You’ve made yourself pretty clear in the past,” Deadpool shot back, lifting a hand so he could start counting off on his fingers, Whitey singing the Asshole song in the background. “I’m a merc and a killer, with no morals or loyalties. Everyone finds me revolting and obnoxious, but I can’t take a hint and won’t go away. And, of course, I’m corrupting your precious Spiderman. Does that about cover it? Cuz we don’t really need to revisit the fine print.”

“No, that’s pretty much why I don’t like you. . . But my visceral horror, the reason I can’t STAND you, despite all your efforts at redemption – well, that one’s on me. Truth is: you terrify me.”

[Good, you pathetic, squirming maggot! I’m fucking Dragonpool, hear me ROARRR! You should be afraid!]

Bitterness swelled in Pool’s chest, barking out with vicious humor, “You’d have to be fucking stupid not to be terrified of me. I’m basically the Terminator gone psycho. Lucky for you, you’re not today’s target.” 

“That’s not what I mean either,” Stark quickly corrected, turning to face Deadpool. “Just listen to me for a minute. I am petrified of being in your situation. Through all my darkest hours, I’ve taken comfort in knowing that death is the backup plan; knowing that no matter how bad it gets, there is always a last ditch option that puts an end to the agony. It literally pains me to imagine being you,” Stark confessed with a deep, expressive grimace. “I’m not sure my psyche could survive even the possibility of eternal torment.” 

For the first time ever, Deadpool felt a painful stab of connection with the arrogant man beside him, who apparently understood the nuances of Pool’s predicament better than he let on. Pool twisted his neck so he could gaze balefully at Stark through the creepy white eyes of his mask. “It’s not like you’d have a choice in that either, Stark. Your psyche would survive whatever its state.” He abruptly grinned widely through his mask and circled a finger in front of his own face. “As seen in exhibit A, things can get a lil dicey.”

[[Diced. Shredded. Ground into dust.]]

But Stark just stared at Deadpool with such a look of pity that the merc had to look away first. Pity always made him feel vulnerable and uncomfortable, as though the other person could actually see the sad, damaged creature he truly was. His months with Peter at his side had boosted his self-esteem somewhat, only for his recent detour into insanity to prove that any and all perceived progress was completely misleading and ultimately false. An ego propped up by Peter’s regard only lasted as long as its crutch.

The two blabbermouths sat in uncharacteristic, yet companionable silence for over ten minutes, basking in the glow of light pollution that radiated out from New York City like a punk rock halo. Yellow and Whitey traded insults and lyrics, but kept it to a mostly peaceful background banter. Eventually Stark hauled himself to his feet, only to stand behind Deadpool with a heavy gaze that made his shoulders tense.

“I’m not gonna pretend that we’ll ever like each other. But I do respect you what you’ve been through. I’ll help, if you ever find yourself desperate enough to need it.”

Deadpool waited out the expectant pause, waiting until Stark was walking away to call cheekily after him, “Imma hold you to that, Anthony! Favors are pretty valuable when you live forever!”

"There's leftover shwarma in the main kitchen!" 

Feeling surprisingly uplifted by the exchange, Pool reclined back on the landing pad, legs still dangling off the edge. Food sounded good, but he felt safe in his leathers and deceptively free under the glowing night sky, and within a few minutes his body had relaxed enough to feel its fatigue. Deadpool didn’t dare sleep, though he cultivated a yogi’s empty mind until a light doze settled over him like a comforting mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific Warnings: Rough sex, emotionally dysfunctional sex; basically the boys acting out their issues through unhappy sex.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approaching the end (of sorts), only one more chapter to go. See End of Chapter for specific WARNINGS.

On day Six, it was no surprise to Peter to wake to an empty bed, barely even a disappointment. Not finding Deadpool in their suite at all was a little more disconcerting, but not necessarily unusual. JARVIS located him on the roof, which Peter understood as a bid for privacy. It’s not like he was chomping at the bit to wade back into their messy emotional quagmire. How much easier would it be to just let their drama go and start over again? Tempting though that thought was, Peter knew that “easy” was the last thing starting over would be, so he resigned himself to stewing in his sorrows over a strong cup of coffee. He felt both guilt and shame at his own behavior, but also anger and hurt at Wade’s. And, of course, he was profoundly irritated by the fact that his whole life had apparently slid into the gray spectrum that he detested so much. There were no obvious answers or right paths, just choices that hurt more or less.

After choking down some toast and coffee, Peter managed to sound okay in a call to Aunt May, focusing on how he was getting the practicalities of his life back together, while avoiding the intricacies of his personal life. After that, he took the elevator to Banner’s lab in the hope of being put to work again. The last thing he wanted was time on his hands, to overthink his issues and then recklessly rehash it all with Wade. What he needed was to resume his education and find a new job, to get back to his routine of busy busy busy. They only had two days of confinement left, but Peter was beginning to fear that They, as a couple, weren’t going to make it. This was different from the usual rollercoaster that Wade dragged him on, this was them failing to connect and communicate on a basic level. All the love in the world wasn’t bridging the sea of guilt, hurt, and fear.

Banner set Peter up with a series of mundane, if technical tasks involving bacterial growth samples on petri dishes. Peter gladly got lost in the measurements and observations, giving the experiments his full attention. He didn’t even notice Stark’s arrival until he commented loudly, “Kick him down to R&D when you’re done with him. They’ll fall over themselves to claim a competent intern.”

Responding like the hungry millennial that he was, Peter’s head shot up as fast as a meerkat on the savannah. His nose even twitched a little as he suspiciously inquired, “Is it a PAID internship?”

Peter had seen innumerous low-wage scams to abuse hapless employees, but Stark scoffed at the insinuation. “Of course it is. Loyalty can absolutely be bought, so while I have high expectations of my employees, I think you’ll find that I treat them quite well. A generous salary, of course, but also housing, medical, even social support if needed."

Peter could read between the lines well enough to realize that Stark was basically offering to take care of him: furnish him with a job, house him in the Tower, take Peter under his wing. Only a couple of months ago, he would’ve found such a scenario stifling, but now it seemed safe and appealing. Of course, it also sounded too good to be true, so he had to ask, “Where does Wade fit into this employment package?”

Stark shrugged awkwardly under Peter’s and Banner’s gazes, struggling to coolly accommodate his changed position. “Well, I don’t often have use for his particular skills, and we’re never gonna be friends. I mean, how much obnoxiousness can one room handle? But like I told him last night, if he ever really needs help, he can count on my support. I’m sorry it took so long for me to come around.” 

“You spoke to him last night?” Peter prompted, fishing curiously.

“Yeah. I think I talked him down from throwing himself off the roof.” Somehow, Peter doubted that, but Stark turned the question around. “Are you guys having problems?”

“Um. This really isn’t any of my business,” Banner spoke up, purposely turning away from the conversation. 

Peter just glared at the smartass billionaire. What had Wade said to him? “Pardon me if you’re the LAST person I wanna talk to about my issues with Wade.”

“Okay, good point. Though I do have a vested interest, as I'd be dealing with any additional fallout from your relationship.” Peter felt chagrinned for a moment, but Stark did not linger. “And, believe it or not, I know a little something about relationships under strain. Trauma does some fucked up things to people.”

“You don’t say,” Peter muttered to himself, wishing Pool was there to make the crack more boldly. He sighed and tried to come up with a more acceptable response. “Look, Mr. Stark, I’m relieved that you’re on our side. Truly. I’m proud to be your ally on the battlefield, and I respect you as a scientist, and maybe it would be super cool to be your employee. . . but I'm really not comfortable discussing my romantic life with you. Uh, sir.”

Stark frowned at him for a long moment of consideration, and then nodded once, slowly, in dramatic concession. “Fair enough. You’d probably be best served by studying my example and doing the exact opposite anyway.”

That earned Stark a small smile from Peter, which was all the opening he needed to launch his next scheme, “Hey, both of you, hear me out on something. I have this idea for how to make a replicator like they have on the Enterprise! Spontaneous replication, science-bros!”

Peter was immediately skeptical. Were they seriously considering how to create something out of nothing? Banner, however, just turned to Stark, frowning slightly in consideration. “Spontaneous replication I can believe is achievable, as long as you’re not married to the whole Star Trek conceit.” 

Stark smirked at them both. “I’m thrilled at your interest. Lemme tell you more. . .”

And so passed the morning. Until JARVIS interrupted a couple of hours later, “Sirs, I apologize for the interruption. Ms. Romanov has requested Mr. Parker’s presence at the sparring ring.”

Peter was already moving towards the door, Stark on his heels asking, “JARVIS. What’s the sitch?”

“The exchange between Mr. Barnes and Mr. Deadpool has lasted one hundred and eight minutes. They appear to be very evenly matched, and both entered willingly into this encounter. However, without intervention, the violence will likely continue indefinitely and cause an increasing degree of damage.” 

“Oh, I gotta see this!” Stark exclaimed as he and Peter powerwalked to the elevator. Peter tuned out the billionaire’s ranting, adrenaline surging even as he tried to gird himself against the upcoming debacle. They ran into Rogers in the hallway and then all half-jogged down to the gym, not slowing until they approached the ring. 

The echoing silence was polluted by the harsh sounds of hard blows hitting flesh, by the pants of prolonged exertion and the occasional gasps of pain. There in the ring were Deadpool and a dead ringer for the Winter Soldier, wailing on each other like it was a fight to the death. Barnes was sweating and bleeding abundantly, and, though his costume hid most of the damage, Deadpool was moving with the distinct impression of pain and injury. The mercenary’s usually flamboyant acrobatics had been reduced to wild, violent lunges and desperate dodges, while the near-mechanical perfection of his opponent’s movements had apparently deteriorated into a chain of coldly predictable responses.

Rogers assessed the scene quickly and headed to the ring, Peter hurrying after him, while Stark joined Romanov and Wilson in the stands. Rogers stopped at the edge of the stage, then he and Peter managed matching stances, half looming and half draping along the elastic ropes, which prompted obvious glances from both combatants. Each then tried to take advantage of the other’s distraction, only to clash violently, unbalance, and crash to the ground in a tangle of thrashing limbs. 

“I can guarantee that Deadpool isn’t gonna stop until someone dies at least once,” Peter commented with a mask of indifference. He couldn’t help remembering the hard, thorough fucking he’d received just a few feet away. “Any chance your buddy would be willing to tap out?”

Even Captain America couldn’t keep the cut of dark humor out of his reply, “It’s not exactly in his programming.”

And so they all went along with the show for several more minutes, alternately flinching or cheering as Barnes and Pool tumbled over each other, taking turns violently flipping and pummeling the other into the ground. Pool kept trying to talk smack through his heavy breathing. “You’re just a geriatric, impotent version of the Fullmetal Alchemist, aren’tcha? Howzit feel to be upstaged by a fifteen year old boy?”

“Dunno know what you’re talking about,” Barnes monotoned, swinging his metal fist with enough force to pulverize. Deadpool cartwheeled away just in the nick of time. 

“Don’t watch that one either!” Wilson hollered from the stands. “Guaranteed trigger!”

The longer the tussle continued, the more the fighters seemed to flag, and Peter was about to climb into the ring when Rogers beat him to it. He clapped loudly as he strutted towards the two combatants. 

“Time to break it up, boys,” Rogers commanded, with a perfectly calculated balance of authority and amusement. “Looks like a draw to me.”

Barnes froze immediately, if briefly, then abruptly released his grip on Deadpool’s neck. It took the mercenary a beat longer to shift gears, body tense and dangerous, before he awkwardly hauled himself up and off the former killing machine. Both were wheezing from exertion and pain, clearly holding themselves in such a way as to favor their numerous injuries.

“Good enough for now,” Pool conceded. Once on his feet, he took a long look at his disheveled opponent. “But there will be a rematch! With a more appreciative audience!”

The wounded gash that served as Barnes’ bloodied lips twitched up in a hint of a smirk. “No audience is more my style.”

“That would give you plausible deniability,” Deadpool taunted tirelessly as Peter came to stand next to him.

“Making friends, I see,” Peter teased fondly. 

“I AM,” Deadpool gushed with such enthusiasm that Peter felt a twinge of protective concern. “Trying to kill each other is the best way to make friends!” He actually bounced high up on his toes and gave a stuttered clap – only to clutch his left wrist and let his weight fall back heavily on right foot with a muffled, “Ow, fuck!”

“Um. I have no idea what to say to that,” Peter confessed, torn between being charmed or chagrined.

“You’re not wrong, Deadpool,” Rogers defended resolutely. “Sparring is a great team building exercise. Though I generally prefer not to draw blood.”

Deadpool perked up at his words. “Since my forced vacation at Stark Tower, I’ve taken down Widow, Pigeoneye, Spidey, you and now ol’ Starbuck here. Is that enough team building to get on the team?”

Both Romanov and Barnes coughed out some kind of objection to Pool’s portrayal of their matches, but then there was a deafening silence as everyone turned to stare conspicuously at Cap, awaiting his answer with bated breath. 

“Maybe. . . as an auxiliary member?” Rogers offered with uncharacteristic weakness. 

“SQUEEE!” Pool catapulted forward, and to his credit, Rogers only took a single step back before bracing for the impact and accepting Pool’s bruising, damp hug. “I’ll be healed in a couple hours, if you want a rematch!”

Rogers gave Pool a stiff, little pat on the back. “That hardly seems sporting, big guy. How about tomorrow?”

“Isn’t that touching?” Stark mocked as he climbed into the ring. “As if this situation could get any steamier. I’m gonna be having homoerotic fantasies for days!”

“Tony!” Rogers barked hoarsely, easing Deadpool away from him. 

“Now that the team asshole has arrived, we should totally have a gangbang,” Pool shot back. 

“I may be an asshole, but you still aren’t part of the team!” Stark snapped back.

“Only cuz YOU haven’t team built with me,” Pool complained petulantly. “How bout we go right now? I’ll even take a handicap and let you wear your big boy suit.”

“That does sound tempting,” Stark drawled, then turned to make puppydog eyes at Rogers. “Please, Cap? I’d love to find out how many living cells he needs to regenerate.”

“I thought you were concerned about keeping the Tower in one piece?” Cap responded with an exasperated shake of his head.

Peter, meanwhile, hooked his arm around Pool’s elbow and pulled him away from this increasingly manic conversation. “On that note. . . how bout we get you cleaned up?”

“I’d rather fight Thor anyway!” Pool yelled over his shoulder, but switched gears a couple seconds later, leaning into Peter’s support as they moved towards the edge of the ring. “My nose needs to be reset. Again.”

“Or you could leave it,” Peter teased. “It’s only gonna get broken again tomorrow.” 

They climbed off the stage, limped out of the gym, and then took the elevator back to their temporary quarters. Once there Peter took Pool’s elbow and guided him to the large Jacuzzi bath off the spare bedroom. Peter ran the hot water, then turned to Pool, who stood unmoving inside the door, chiseled and strong as a Greek statue. Peter approached slowly, stopping before him, gazing into the unreadable white eyes of the Deadpool mask and wondering if an overture at intimacy would even be welcome at this point.

After a silent, delicate moment between them, Deadpool offered up a gloved hand. “Pretty sure my wrist is broken. Wanna help me get the leather off?”

“Yes,” Peter practically whispered, reaching for the glove. Pool hissed slightly as Peter gently peeled the unwieldy material off of both bruised hands, but he submitted completely to his lover’s ministrations. Moving with deliberate care, Peter reached up to Pool’s shoulder clasps, then when the older man relaxed under his touch, he helped with the rest of the combat suit. Angry bruises further decorated much of Wade’s scarred torso, baring witness to the rather severe beating he’d received at Barnes’ hands. Peter kept his expression neutral until the very end, when an otherwise naked Wade finally pulled off his hood, only to turn towards the toilet and spit out a couple bloody teeth. Peter couldn’t help the grimace of sympathy when the older man turned back to him, revealing puffy eyes, busted lips, and blood caked to the lower half of his face. 

“Damn,” Peter muttered, stroking tender fingers along Wade’s temple and down his jaw, tracing the multitude of injuries. “He must’ve gotten in a few good hits with the metal fist.”

“My face is a great distraction, and it can take the hit,” Wade agreed hazily, eyelids drooping like a cat being petted just right. “I just wish he’d kept going, bashed my brains in good and proper.”

Peter’s heart ached at those words, as it always did when Wade sought solace in physical pain. Wade was responsible for his own multitude of unhealthy coping mechanisms, of course, but Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty. Surely it was the strain of their relationship problems that was driving Wade seek solace, not just in pain, but now in pain inflicted by a third party. What right did Peter have to be jealous? He was the one that had scripted provocative scenes based on his own infidelity. 

Feeling intimately involved in Wade’s emotional pain, Peter led the injured man to sit on the toilet seat, and then tilted his face up to get a good look at the broken nose. That was the only warning Wade got before Peter’s hand darted to the center of Wade’s face and gave the bloody appendage a quick, controlled snap. 

“OH FUCK!” Wade bellowed, jerking forward to meet his hands halfway, covering his throbbing nose and moaning loudly. After a couple harsh breaths, he managed a muffled, “Still better lookin’ than Micky Roark.”

Peter couldn’t help a short laugh, which yielded quickly to a feeling of bittersweet affection. “Obviously.”

After giving him a moment to recover, Peter grasped Wade’s arm and helped him into the bath, more to maintain contact with the other man than because any assistance was required. Wade reclined in the hot water and closed his eyes in obvious appreciation, while Peter just settled at the side of the tub and just studied his unique boyfriend. He wished he had his camera with him, wished Wade would’ve been okay with him photographing him like this. Peter’s artistic eye noted the room’s soft, perfect lighting; appreciated the contrast of the flowing water, the smooth tub, and Wade’s brutalized skin; and adored both the visible power of Wade’s body and the expressive contours of his face. Though even as Peter admired this potential picture, his heart ached with an undeniable yearning to simply document this precious moment in his life, to save as many good memories and feelings as he could before everything disintegrated completely. The harder he held on, the faster Wade seemed to slip through his fingers. Neither knew how to fix Them.

The pain quickly grew too sharp, and Peter turned away from it, standing and leaving the room without looking back, “I’ll figure out something to eat.”

Wade took his sweet time in the tub, which was fine by Peter. It gave him the opportunity to do lots of mind yoga while preparing a large lunch menu appropriate to their appetites. By the time Deadpool finally joined him in the common room, dressed in a soft mask and Stark’s overpriced clothes, Peter had masterminded some baked chicken, a light pasta dish, a hearty salad, and a couple dozen homemade oatmeal cookies. 

“Damn! This looks like Sunday brunch at Aunt May’s house!” Pool exclaimed, eyeballing the spread with obvious appreciation. “Spidey, you been holding out on me!”

Peter smiled at the enthusiasm. “Don’t usually have the time to cook. Plus, nothing here is very complicated or time consuming. There’s just a lot of it.”

“That’s the most important thing, as far as I’m concerned,” Deadpool returned immediately, settling quickly into a chair and grabbing the nearest the serving spoon. Peter joined him at the table, then doled out portions only modestly smaller than Pool’s completely unreasonable mountain of food. Wade rolled his mask up like a cap, revealing his mostly healed face, and started shoveling biomatter into his mouth indiscriminately. 

After the large meal, Deadpool took to the couch to commune with the television, while Peter went to therapy. Peter recounted the embarrassing rollercoaster ride that had been the last twenty four hours, and Dr. Wakka basically asked “Do you know what you did wrong?” in a dozen different ways. But Peter couldn’t hear it, or the subtle undercurrent of I-told-you-so. When it came to him and Wade, he was too accustomed to protecting what they had, he didn’t respect criticism; he couldn’t accept Dr, Wakka telling them to stop, to slow down, to restrain themselves. Peter was too used to relying on their physical chemistry, he wouldn’t deny it now when the needed it the most. He left their session feeling both defiant and determined. 

Back in their apartment, Peter was treated to the rare sight of Deadpool passed out in the living room, Golden Girls playing on the screen. Pool had played it off relatively well, as per usual, but he had obviously taken quite a beat down to require that degree of healing. Peter stalked silently towards the couch, only to carefully perch on the arm. He was feeling confident and bold, he wanted to seize the day and defy the odds. Just cuz he had needed the rough treatment to get hard before didn’t mean he couldn’t do it right this time. He wanted to prove to Wade that They were something worth saving, that they could still feel good together. Screw Dr. Wakka and her warnings!

The bulky merc finally stirred as Peter deftly swung a leg over his hips and settled on to his lap, stretching and arching his powerful body into Peter’s smaller one. Peter resisted his desires no longer and deftly folded up Pool’s mask, just enough to plunder Wade’s mouth with his tongue, mapping and owning each detail. Pressing and thrusting against the larger man, Peter slowly worked them both up, roughly sucking Wade’s tongue into in own mouth, teasing and demanding and eliciting groans and wet gasps from them both. 

Pool eventually broke for air, panting a little as he growled, “I still won’t hurt you. Not like that, not again.”

Peter cringed a little, but forced himself to face Wade’s words, and where they were coming from. He took his conviction from the hard length of Pool’s body against his, the rutting synchronization of their hips, the heady desire to prove to his lover that this could still be good. Peter swallowed down the ever present guilt and shame to assure, “You don’t have to. I know I was being unfair yesterday. I got this now.” 

Pool’s pelvis stuttered, dragging his dick along Peter’s hip, and he gave in completely, “Anything else. Anything you want. Please.”

“All in good time,” Peter murmured, moving an arm to grab a hold of Deadpool’s hood, still folded across his nose, then tugging it off. Wade closed his eyes against the exposure, as he always did at first, but then Peter was rewarded with an intimate look into his lover’s soul. Below him was the man who couldn’t hurt him, who refused to safeword with him, who had taken flames, bullets, and knives for him. Just yesterday Peter had struggled to find arousal in that, but today’s mood swing saw such dedication as beautiful and erotic. He claimed Wade’s lips in another long, possessive kiss, then pulled back and kneeled beside the couch, pulling Wade’s legs along either side of him. Peter ran nimble fingers up Wade’s firm thighs and suggested, “If you help me with these pants, I’ll suck you right this time. Long and wet and perfect, just as you like. I promise.”

“Mmmm. That sounds amazing.” Wade immediately eased off the fitted trousers that Peter found so sexy and distracting. The older man was, of course, going commando, and Ol’ Reliable was raring to go. Still, as Peter gently scratched up Wade’s calves, then thighs, he easily felt the goosebumps, and even a faint trembling. Wade was nervous and vulnerable before him; and at this point they’d triggered each other so many times, how could he not be? The faint thrill this gave him, however perverse, made Peter feel more like his old self, and he found it easy to work up a mouthful of spit before wrapping his lips around Wade’s massive, marked cock.

“Hell yes! Suck it, Trebek!"

Peter’s mind flashed to yesterday’s brutal face fucking, but this was a completely different experience. Peter was careful and gentle in his lazy fellatio, and Wade rewarded him with dirty words of encouragement and wanton moans of appreciation, all going straight to Peter’s dick. He touched his prick gingerly, but didn’t want to jinx himself by thinking too much about his own arousal. Instead he focused on the heat and power that surrounded and penetrated him; on the teasing irregularities of Wade’s cock brushing across his lips and tongue; on the salty tastes and musky smells and sounds that flooded his senses with the full experience of carnal worship. He honestly lost track of time, caught up in pleasuring his lover as thoroughly as possible, and still, still, it wasn’t enough, he always craved more. More Wade, more sex, more connection, just More. He wouldn’t, couldn’t let Them end. 

Then Peter abruptly pulled off with an obscenely wet slurp. “Turn around.”

Wade froze for a beat before he struggled clumsily to obey, tense and bereft of his usual physical grace. It made Peter wonder even as he aided the muscular body into position: kneeling on the carpet and bent over the couch, face buried in a cushion while his firm buttocks were exposed and defenseless. Peter found himself equal parts appalled and aroused by the trust on display, and fingers reached out on their own volition to caress those quivering mounds of flesh.

“Are you afraid?” Peter asked, sounding as frigid as he felt, cuz he was definitely was –afraid of remembering a similar view through Octavius’ eyes, or of Wade reliving his own experience; afraid of fucking this up and hurting them both again.

“Fuck, Petey, I’m terrified, but I’ve never wanted it more in my life,” Wade whined plaintively into the cushions. “Please. Show me how much you want me.”

Wade’s spine arched down, pushing back towards Peter and thighs parting in invitation even as they trembled unsteadily. Peter gave in to temptation and palmed the muscular cheeks apart, exposing a tight pucker that only spasmed and clenched further under his covetous gaze. “I do want you, Wade. So much. And I’m gonna take care of you, I swear.”

Peter followed the familiar, forbidden desire, to lean in and lick at that bewitching opening. Wade gasped sharply, body jerking away in shock, but Peter rode out the involuntary movements, using his arms and shoulders to pin Wade’s hips to the couch; until he had enough leverage and access to press a determined, pointed tongue along the fiercely clenched rim. Wade moaned then, low and long and stuttered, while Peter pressed his advantage, coaxing Wade’s body to relax under his ministrations. After a moment, that powerful back eased lower, hips canting naturally for a better angle, and Wade’s body softened in submission; a second later, Wade opened up and Peter’s tongue breached the wrinkled guardian wring. Hitching moans and breathless gasps flooded Peter’s ears and filled his cock, his mouth gluttonously preoccupied with Wade’s sensitive hole. The taste of soap and smell of skin only tantalized Peter to lick further into that hot, beckoning passage, first penetrating as deeply as possible, then circling the inside of the yielding rim. 

Peter tried a few other techniques, pistoning and caressing, twisting and spreading his tongue, before his jaw ached enough to prompt his withdrawal. As his tongue slid out of the slick orifice, Peter pulled off just far enough to get an eyeful of the glistening, pink opening. He felt Wade’s body relax beneath him as the stimulation abated, but he didn’t want that. He pressed back between those spread cheeks, gently sucking on the entire ring of muscle. Wade wailed into the cushions and writhed against Peter, so that he had to lick and suck and tongue in again.

When he finally drew up, couldn’t move quick enough. Shuffling closer, Peter draped heavily along Wade’s side, leaving just enough space to press his two middle fingers to Wade’s puckered entrance. Wade muffled a cry as his hole surged open and let Peter’s fingers slip in all the way the second knuckle. The spit was barely sufficient lubricant, making for a rough drag of flesh, but Peter managed to carefully work a third digit into the tight orifice, eliciting cries and shudders from the hard, muscular body. Without real lube, Peter could go no further, and so for a long moment he just pressed his long fingers deep into Wade’s hot core, savoring how Wade’s body jolted and eased in response to his hand’s movements. Peter rubbed his own erection against a firm left buttock, as he inhaled and tasted the faint sweat along Wade’s neck. 

Caught up in the lust of the moment, it took Peter several seconds to notice the difference in texture, and then another stomach-plummeting second to realize why. The tight passage that gripped his fingers was not the same smooth velvet of memory, but now felt rough and irregular, much like Wade’s skin after a good soaking. Thanks to Peter’s unforgivable actions while under the influence of Octavius, Wade was now as scarred and marked on the inside as he was superficially. 

A chasm of guilt and shame cracked open suddenly in Peter’s chest, stealing his breath and shading everything in a stark, chilling tint. A violent shiver ricocheted through Peter, and then he yanked out his fingers as quickly as he could without hurting Wade, who shuddered and cried out an achingly familiar, “Don’t stop! Please!” 

The words only turned the tightness in Peter’s throat into a stranglehold, forcing him to gasp loudly as he lurched to his feet and stumbled away from his naked lover. STOPSTOPSTOP! The voices in his own head were screaming, overlapping with Wade’s pleas until the sensory onslaught catapulted him into a flashback of being a helpless, terrified observer in his own body, of watching his own hands restrain Wade and pierce him with a glass weapon. 

“STOP! DON’T! PLEASE!” 

– He flipped the desk, with Wade on it, so that the restrained man crashed to the ground, screaming in agony as the glass shattered inside his rectum – 

Overwhelmed with horror and struggling against invisible demons, Peter lashed out blindly, only to stumble backwards over a coffee table that was sturdy enough to take the weight that landed heavily on it. He thrashed and kicked out for a moment, but he met no resistance and quickly curled up in tense, quivering ball. Time and location whirled around him indeterminately as he tried to block everything out. Who can handle the outside when you’re falling apart inside?

Finally, the relative lack of stimulus allowed Peter to gradually come back to himself. He first became aware of his harsh breathing, contrasting sharply with the silent background; then he tried to slow and lengthen his breathes, using Dr. Wakka’s mindfulness techniques to try to stay in the Now. Eventually Peter had calmed enough to wonder at his surroundings. He opened his eyes hesitantly, and when that offered an uninformative view of the wall, he cautiously unfurled and sat up. 

Deadpool was sitting on the couch, completely redressed and virtually vibrating with an unnatural stillness. They stared at each other for long seconds before Deadpool asked with obvious strain in his voice, “Are you alright?”

Peter managed to swallow past the pain in his throat, but he was too ashamed to maintain the eye contact, especially with the mask obscuring his read on the other man. “Flashback.”

Deadpool grunted his acknowledgement, reluctantly followed by, “Do you need anything?”

Peter shivered violently, at the smoky chill in Pool’s voice and burning ice in his own soul. He had no right to ask his lover for anything, and yet his own desperation made him a beggar. “Could you just hold me for a bit? I’m. . . I’m sorry I fucked it up, that I keep fucking us up.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Deadpool assured roughly, sounding resigned. He stood slowly, as though every joint in his body ached. “None of this is.”

Pool moved closer, then settled heavily next to Peter on the couch. Peter immediately leaned into Pool’s body, dropping his head onto the hard shoulder and soaking in the older man’s strength and endurance. It was a relief that he could still be comforted and reassured by Pool’s presence, despite all the pain and guilt that now lay between them. 

“Was it. . . something specific that triggered you?” Deadpool inquired quietly, sounding almost detached. Peter wanted to consider it uncharacteristic, but this eerily calm and twistedly logical side of Pool was making increasingly frequent appearances. Perhaps recent experiences had fundamentally changed Deadpool as deeply as Peter had been affected. 

Peter struggled to answer Pool’s question in a way that wouldn’t hurt his lover more, as blaming Wade’s scars for his flashback was big and obvious no-no. “I’m not sure it’s that easy. I was really into it at the start. I’ve wanted to, uh, rim you for a long time. But you’ve never hinted at anything like that, so I wasn’t sure. But then you seemed to like it, and feeling you squirming like that made me hard as a rock. I thought I’d be able to, um, you know, keep going. Only when I put my fingers in you. . . all I could think about was how much I’d hurt you.” 

Deadpool’s body was tense and still next to him, while Peter’s breath and heart rate had sped up significantly. He gripped Pool’s large naked hand, and forced himself to breathe through the anxiety and continue, even when his voice broke, “I – I – I SHREDDED you. And I just don’t understand. I love fucking you, fingering you, licking your hole. I love you. How could I allow Octavius to attack you like that? To desecrate US like this? I was able to take over later, did you know, to save his little girlfriend from a train? And when you were trying to convince him to give up, I was able to influence him then too. . . Why couldn’t I spare you this, Wade? If anyone deserved to be saved for once, it’s you.” 

Deadpool sat unmoving and silent for a long time, pressed against Peter’s side yet muscles coiled with prolonged tension. When he spoke, his words were measured and calm and the exact opposite of his trademarked manic rant. Sometimes Peter could barely recognize his lover underneath (or through?) all the symptoms.

“This body’s been shredded too many times to count, healed so many times that the novelty has long worn off. But these months with you. . . Petey, it felt like I was healing on the inside too. Cuz you’ve already saved me. Before I met you, I – we.” Deadpool shook his head quickly in confusion. “Whatever. WE were dangerous, pathetic, and actively psychotic. We killed others frequently and ourselves regularly, and we were exactly what Doc Ock thought we were, a shit stain of a human being. We had no friends, and we loathed everything about ourself. I . . . can’t even begin to describe what you have done for us, for me. You’ve given me confidence in myself, and strength to battle my demons; you’ve believed in me, until even I believe in my potential; you’ve convinced me that you love me. . . That there must be something worthwhile within me.”

“I do love you,” Peter sniffled wretchedly, as tears pooled in his eyes. It hurt to feel so close to someone and yet so irrevocably apart. The power of their intimate words only highlighted their inability to completely bridge the gap, to seal their connection with the cathartic sexual unions that had typically followed. 

Peter wallowed in what had morphed into self pity, leaving Deadpool to break the moment by standing with apparent effort. “Didn’t sleep last night and the Winter Soldier kinda pulverized me this morning. Think I might actually get some shut eye for once.” 

Peter was reluctant to see him go, feeling their connection stretch thinner even as he cast out a hesitant, “Can I join you in a bit?”

“Of course, baby boy,” Pool agreed without turning, leaving Peter to continue his pity party all on his lonesome. A depressive melancholy settled over him, so that he spent long minutes staring into shadows and at the perfectly blank ceiling. At least Aunt May’s place had an interesting ceiling, one with real history.

A short lifetime later, Peter was burrowing into the couch cushions, indulging in a little depressed breath play, when strange sounds from the bedroom roused him from his Trance of Perpetual Hopelessness. At first his eyes simply darted to the door, but a couple heartbeats later he was silently padding over, carefully twisting the doorknob so that he could peer in. 

Deadpool was fully dressed on top of the covers, lying flat on his back, shuddering and occasionally jerking. A second later he grunted and curled in on himself as though he’d taken a blow to stomach. Another nightmare, Peter assumed, and slipped closer to wake the other man. Only when he neared, he’d’ve had to be blind to miss the full mast erection between his legs, and the realization caused him to down shift into an even lower, slower gear of suffering. Was this Peter’s punishment for bemoaning the always erroneous assumption that “it couldn’t get any worse”? Dare he hope that this was just an erotic dream, inevitable after their coitus interruptus? 

Deadpool’s head and neck snapped back violently, his entire body jerking back as if reacting to a powerful uppercut, and the groan that spilled out was definitely one of pain. Peter felt an irrational stab of bitterness, entertaining a brief fantasy of leaping onto Deadpool, pinning him to the bed and wrapping a vice around that insatiable cock, squeezing til it hurt, until he crushed it. That was its punishment for getting hard when it shouldn’t, when Peter couldn’t; punishment for needing what Peter couldn’t provide. 

The idea thrilled and horrified in equally muted tones, but that’s what Deadpool, Wade, Whitey, whoever. . . that’s what he REALLY wanted, right? To be jacked within an inch of his immortal life, and beyond; to cum right over the cusp of existence, pleasure exploding into oblivion; for the relief of the body to merge with the true peace of Final Death. He was probably dreaming right now about the Winter Soldier: straddling his hips and grinding down on Deadpool’s huge, swollen cock, flesh hand strangling his neck while the metal fist pummeled his skull like battering ram. Bang! Crack! Crunch! Squelch! Splash!

Feeling bitter and queasy at the thought, Peter decided to leave Wade to his erotic fantasies of self-annihilation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific WARNINGS: Violence, graphic sex, flashback during sex, disturbing sexual/violent imagery.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Warnings.

Deadpool gasped to consciousness, desperately sucking down air in a telling fashion.

[Fucking strangled again!] 

[[I put my money on the brain damage having killed us first.]]

A sudden flash of memory had him fighting a dangerous opponent, a dark, smoldering killer with a metal fist; and the image was so visceral that he jerked into a fetal position, arms protecting his face and eyes squeezed shut defensively. But after a moment in which the expected blows did not fall, Wade’s adrenaline slowed enough for him to realize that he was not in the cranial agony typical of such a recovery. Then, every muscle straining with anticipation, he cautiously opened his eyes –

To two small Sims caricatures of Deadpool and the Winter Soldier: there, on the wall. Pool watched in hypnotized fascination, as the two figures fought briefly, before the Winter Soldier started pummeling Deadpool in earnest. Soon he was crouching over Deadpool’s defeated torso, slamming his head into the pixilated ground over and over, until blood and cum erupted from his body. 

Deadpool closed his eyes again, only to shake his head violently. When he dared look again, he was able to take in his surroundings, free of animation. He was in “his” bedroom at Stark Tower, having apparently woken from a dream of the Winter Soldier annihilating him. The cum in his sweats told its own story, and a shudder ran through Deadpool at a fantasy as equally shameful as it was titillating. 

[Spidey would slam into us from behind, cracking our skull against the concrete even as he forces into our clenching hole. He’d yank back, only to impale us again with mighty thrusts that smash and grind our brains into the pavement. As we lost consciousness, he’d promise that this is the Last time, that it’s almost over – ]

[[Barf. Enough already. Not gonna happen.]]

Deadpool stumbled into the bathroom. A shower would’ve been most appropriate, but a quick glimpse in the mirror was enough for him to discard that option. Even with his soft masked and fully clothed, only hands and feet showing, he looked weak and broken. What had happened to the Deadpool who had at least been able to admire his covered silhouette? The (relatively) carefree mercenary that had oscillated more towards gleeful murder than morose self-destruction? Even the dubious strengths that had gotten him through years of hopelessness had seemingly abandoned him. How could love have eviscerated him so? 

[♪♬ Love stinks, yeah yeah! Love stinks! ♪♬]

“Shut up,” Pool growled, punching the mirror just for the satisfaction of seeing the glass shatter. He took a couple steadying breaths and told himself, “We can’t afford to fall apart again. We swore to ourselves.” 

[[I stand by that. No one needs Dragonpool to make another appearance, especially not Peter.]]

“At this point, I think we can safely say that Peter doesn’t need anything from us,” Pool muttered sullenly and dejectedly. “Nothing we can supply anyway.” 

Pool peeled his pants down just enough to wipe away the cooling cum. He did a crap job of cleaning up, then quickly hid himself away again. He slipped from the bathroom, making his way purposely for the closet. Steeling himself for the upcoming trial, he fixated on the protective battle suit that hung there. He could hardly bear being naked, but the costume promised such protection and comfort that Wade powered through the vulnerability, eyes never leaving the red and black leather. Finally free, he yanked on the restrictive material with an unflattering desperation, panic flaring –

As he pulled the thick mask over his face, Sims mode slipped over him unbidden, magically clarifying the reality of the situation. Peter and Wade had been trying to patch each other up all week, but all they’d managed was to repeatedly hurt one another. Again and again. As Einstein mighta said, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. 

[Who are we to argue with maybe fucking Einstein?!]

Deadpool silently exited the empty bedroom. He took a moment to study Peter’s form on the couch, just long enough to assess his breathing. The younger man had gotten good at faking, but still couldn’t pull one over ol’ Pool. An echo of pain pierced through the disassociation, but Pool only swallowed and turned away from his hiding lover. It wasn’t like either of them was able to get the comfort they needed from one another. Their broken pieces just didn’t seem to match up anymore. 

Deadpool quietly grabbed a couple knives lodged into the intricately woven target that adored the wall, then pulled out a pool stick from where it perforated the decorative dummy’s abdomen. He wasn’t planning violence, but it was still the middle of the night and he had hours to go before he could convince the right people to let him go. In Sims Mode he couldn’t even properly fantasize about cobbling together a homemade bomb and blowing his way out of Stark Tower. Or rather, he could, but there was no pleasure or excitement to be had from the consideration, just the cold given that he was trapped in a multi-billion dollar prison and at the mercy of a group of superpowered wardens that generally considered him dangerous and unstable. He needed to play this game strategically.

Deadpool silently left his quarters, took the elevator to another floor, then made his way to a very specific place. The farther he got from Peter, the more he felt like himself. The door to the waiting area opened automatically, so he went on in. A quick inspection of the office door revealed that it would require some effort and ingenuity to actually get through. 

[But think of her face when she finds us at her desk, feet resting on her papers as we clean our nails with a knife. Hysterical! She’ll be terrified.]

[[That’s cuz we’re a murderous nutjob who gets off on other’s fear. In this case, intimidation will not help our cause.]]

Deadpool grunted in agreement and dropped heavily to the couch in the waiting room. 

“Mr. Deadpool, sir? Do you require assistance?” Jarvis interrupted his thoughts. Pool was probably just imagining it, but the AI’s normally perfect cocksucking voice actually sounded concerned. He supposed it might look a little suspicious: battle ready Deadpool, waiting for Dr. Wakka in the middle of the night, armed apparently with a couple knives and a pool stick. 

“Don’t worry, I just want to talk.” He emphasized his words by bringing the larger knife up to the tip of the stick and slicing a thin sliver of wood from the side. 

“Perhaps I can offer my services until the doctor is available?” 

“You’re a great armchair shrink, Jar Jar, but not this time,” Pool replied moodily, as he took another sliver off the stick, sharpening the tip. 

Hours later, when Dr. Wakka walked calmly into her waiting room, she’d either been forewarned or had balls of steel (or both), as she showed neither surprise nor fear. And despite his efforts, Deadpool still inevitably made for an intimidating figure, wearing his full battle leathers and, between his splayed thighs, carving an elaborately patterned, double pointed spear.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilson. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Meh. What is time to an immortal?” Pool demurred obnoxiously, rolling his shoulders in a loose shrug.

Dr. Wakka spared him almost no attention as she crossed the room to her private office. “You’re lucky that I always come in early to prep for the day, otherwise you’d be waiting longer. You won’t be interfering with my other commitments by dropping in whenever you want.”

[This old bitch is kinda hot. I could see her getting kinky on us.]

[[Shut. The. Fuck. Up.]]

“That’s fine, doc. This won’t take but a moment of your precious time,” Pool replied, standing to follow as the shrink passed the retinal scan and entered her private office. 

“You can leave the weapons behind my assistant’s desk.”

She bustled about for a minute, hanging up her shawl and starting the coffee machine, before settling behind her desk and then, finally, turning her full attention to Deadpool. He had sprawled messily onto the comfy armchair, opposite elbow and knee hanging over the armrests while his head tilted back at an ugly angle that let him glare at the ceiling. 

[[Great first impression. Just let it all hang out, don’t hold anything back.]]

“So, what can I do for you?” Dr. Wakka asked with control, compassion, and authority.

Pool gently laid a gloved hand over the cup that protected his crotch.

[[That was sarcasm, assfungus. Get your shit together before we completely fuck this up.]]

Deadpool snapped back on target, his body righting itself suddenly and his boot stomping loudly on the floor. “I want outta here, a-sap. But if I’m going to do that without violence, I need a clean-ish bill of mental health first. So. Do whatever headshrinker voodoo you need to. Gimme the test, or whatever.” 

The Doctor hummed briefly, strong features easing in apparent sympathy. “There is no test, Wade. . . Can I call you Wade? That’s what Peter calls you.”

The mention of Peter chilled him to the bone, and he felt more like Deadpool than Wade; but still his head nodded without conscious instruction. 

[♪♬ So will the Real Deadpool please stand up? And put one of those fingers on each hand up! ♪♬]

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head and trying to flip back into Sims mode. Things were already getting confusing, and he needed to be sharp if he was gonna get through this conversation with the shrink. 

Dr. Wakka was studying him carefully, obviously taking it all in and making Wade feel naked despite his protective costume. “Wade. I can’t guarantee that I can get you released early. But if you want my help in this effort, I do need one question answered.” 

Pool seriously doubted that it was just one, but the doctor seemed to be seeking his permission, so he nodded cautiously. 

“Why? You have demonstrated your ability to live up to the conditions of your release, and in twenty hours, your seven days of observation will be complete. Why not wait it out? Why subject yourself to a conversation you clearly don’t want?”

Pool scowled. “This is The Test, isn’t it?”

Dr. Wakka smiled gently. “’Fraid so. And I’ll know if you lie.”

Deadpool rubbed his gloved hands into his masked temples, scratching the already irritated skin there. “If you have any professional abilities to back up your well endowed attitude, then you know why. This situation between Peter and me is toxic. Obviously. It boggles my shattered mind that anyone in this tower would allow it to continue.”

[Wait a sec. What exactly are we doing here?!]

“You mean leave you at the mercy of your attacker?” the doctor clarified pointedly. 

“What?! No!” Deadpool objected forcefully, losing his cool completely as he jumped to his feet and towered threateningly over Dr. Wakka’s desk. “Is that what you’re telling Peter?!”

The older woman didn’t even flinch, just maintained her open features and stance with a patient silence. “No. I’m not telling Peter to think anything. That’s just how some might view it.”

[[Someone like Peter. . .Tell her the truth, Wade.]]

After a shaky breath, Deadpool gritted out, “That’s not how it is, but I know Peter sees it that way. This shit with Osborn really fucked him up, which is kinda the point. Me, I’m like a walking, talking trigger. How can he heal with this big horny dog always trying to hump his leg? He needs his space. From me anyway. Together as we are right now, we’re only hurting each other.”

Dr. Wakka’s eyes scanned his face, the way Peter’s did when he wanted Pool to take off his mask. The impulse flared momentarily, but the tension was too tight, and Deadpool’s grip too strong. Wade maintained his cover.

“What about you?” the wizened shrink prodded. “What do you need to heal?”

[♪♬I want sexual healing –♪♬][[VETO!!!]]

“There’s nothing to heal here,” Deadpool explained coolly. So much for just one question. “Whatever Doc Ock tried to break in me, it was destroyed years ago. I’ve been so broken for so long, there’s nothing but scar tissue now. This is the new natural.” 

“When my patients describe their behavior as natural, it’s usually because they haven’t put much effort into changing it,” Dr. Wakka judged knowingly. 

“I admire the Michelin ranked flavor of your condescension,” Deadpool bitched back bitterly. As if this cunt could possibly know anything about him. “Must be a shrink thing. Most could only fake that level of superiority, but you lot really believe you’re gods.”

The shrink snorted lightly, then got up and moved to the futuristic caffeine machine. “Gods we are not. . . Coffee?” 

“With lotsa sugar and arsenic please.”

Pool’s eyes tracked her every movement as the matronly hippy prepared their beverages, then returned to the desk with them. “Say for a moment that I agree with you. Just that you two are hurting each other right now. Perhaps a trial separation would be good for you both. But it can still wait a day until the deadline.”

[Would you believe that I have No Patience. Like Absolute Zero. Zip, niltch, nada. Not a fucking ounce. I will blow sky high if you try to keep me here past my boiling point.]

Deadpool took his mug and strode over to the floor-to-ceiling window, peering out at the sprawling cityscape view. Dr. Wakka must carry quite some weight to get this corner office. “This observation period is bullshit. All it proves is how well Peter has tamed me, and I only agreed to it cuz I wanted to patch things up with Peter. None of which means shit anymore. Would you rather I lie to Tony Fucking Stark and Captain America? Pretend that Spiderman will still be around to keep this cyclone of crazy in check?”

“So you’re objecting to the period of observation as a matter of integrity?” the doctor challenged in return, devoid of the expected sarcasm. 

[[Not this again. . . WHO THE FUCK KNOWS WHY WE DO ANYTHING?!]] 

Deadpool was suddenly confused again, and agitated, his priorities and motives seeming to kaleidoscope. The doctor wanted to know why it was so important that he leave right now and he didn’t have a good answer. He needed to fucking FOCUS for once, but it was always so impossible! He carefully set down his cup and turned back to the shrink, forcing his frustration into words, “Well, fuck. Maybe I’M the one that needs out of here right the fuck now. I can’t be stuck in this fucking Tower, hurting the man I love, under lock and key and constant scrutiny! It’s making me crazier than I already am, and I don’t have a lot to work with as it is!” 

At this point, he’d escalated to ranting and raving, “I have to do the right thing here! I can’t be A Threat. Especially not to Peter, but not generally either. I refuse to hurt either of us a moment longer to appease the Almighty Fucking Avengers. There’s no TEST for whether I’m gonna go Full Metal Jacket again, nothing except trial by fire. Everyone should know that by now. So just let me go, and stand by with the heavy artillery. Enough of this Greek tragedy meets the last fucking season of MTV’s Real World!”

After a considering pause, Dr. Wakka responded calmly from her desk, “You’re very eloquent, Wade. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No one’s ever used such a flattering euphemism for my motormouth, no,” Pool snapped, turning petulantly back to the morning cityscape.

“I’d go so far to say that it’s a gift,” the doctor pushed. 

[This hot old bitch is hitting on us – Look! The Empire State Building!]

[[Do I need to dignify that with a response?]]

“Thank you, I guess?” Deadpool agreed warily. “On the balance, my mouth’s got me out of more tight spots than it’s gotten me into. Which is saying a l-l-lot.”

“I’m sure,” Dr. Wakka agreed. “But in this case you have articulated yourself well, and I’m inclined to help you with this predicament. I find your reasoning to be sound.”

This time Deadpool turned around slowly, voice thick with skepticism, “Definitely the first time I’ve heard that one.”

The woman had moved, and was now closer, half-sitting on the edge of her desk. “I think a time apart would be beneficial to both you and Peter, provided you’re both given the skills and support to succeed. I’m confident that Peter is equipped for his recovery, but what about you? Do you at least have a plan for getting through this separation?”

[Uuuh. . . Is that a trick question?]

“Who needs a plan when you literally can’t die?” Pool taunted, inching closer to her. “I’ll be getting by one way or another.”

“That is textbook dysfunctional thinking,” she pointed out casually.

“You got me with that one!” Pool snarked back loudly, quickly moving around the doctor to pace the rug. “Why diagnose me with twelve mental illnesses when “dysfunctional thinking” covers it all? Classic case really. Between the talking boxes and the various modes, it’s hard to get any peace of mind!” 

“Of course it is,” Dr. Wakka agreed reasonably. “Which is why you’re in for a rough time when you leave here alone. If you don’t have any coping strategies, then it is my professional duty to help you develop them.”

Deadpool abruptly froze, and then a moment later, slapped himself hard on the forehead. “Oh, fuck! I’ve allowed myself to be headshrinked! Headshrunk? Oh, whatever. You fucking headshrinkered me!”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Wade,” the doctor commanded. [CRACK!] “Now come sit so we can devise an exit plan for you.”

*

The morning passed quickly, if hazily, as Deadpool blurred in and out of Sims Mode. Dr. Wakka confirmed her significant influence, when a call from her had Stark in her office within minutes. 

The dear doctor laid out his case with more poise and reason than he could’ve faked, “Both Mr. Wilson and I agree that the last twenty hours of his observation should be spent out in real world conditions, without the assistance of Mr. Parker. His behavior inside Stark Tower, while in his boyfriend’s custody, is hardly indicative of his future behavior.” 

Stark’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at Deadpool, but he took a moment to consider the situation before answering. “What kind of observation?”

“Anything,” Pool granted, arms crossing defensively over his pecs. “Skin tags, bracelets, implants. Audio/visual, bioreadings, whatever you need. At this point I’d agree to a collar and butt plug satellite dish.” 

“Now THAT would be inappropriate,” Dr. Wakka scolded with apparent humor. 

The billionaire genius looked over Deadpool in apparent deliberation. “I’m much more concerned about what happens once you’ve fled the reservation.” 

“Whatever,” Pool dismissed carelessly. “Wire me to detonate if you wanna be safe.”

“That sounds like the exact opposite of safe,” Stark retorted.

Deadpool forced his arms apart, splaying in an affected invitation to his body. “Use any kind of deadswitch you like. It’ll only ever put me down for a while, but surely it’d be long enough for y’all to retrieve my immortal carcass.”

Stark glared at the mercenary, obviously searching for the catch. “And what does Spiderman have to say about all this?”

Deadpool’s arms dropped to his side and his whole body stilled as he conceded painfully to the question, “I imagine he’ll be disappointed, but not surprised. All we do anymore is hurt each other. . . Not that he gets the final say in MY freedom or MY mental health.”

Stark frowned for a confused second, and was then transformed by sudden disbelief. “You mean after all this time, YOU are gonna dump HIM?”

[[I really hate this fucking douche canoe.]]

[Go for his eyes!]

“You should be happy, asshat,” Pool snapped. “This is what you always wanted. Me, out of everyone’s lives. Now don’t you have to go suck Cap’s cock to get the okay on my early release?”

“Let’s all just take a moment to think about our words,” Dr. Wakka tried to interject, without avail.

Stark taunted as though the doctor hadn’t spoken at all, “I should keep you here just to spite you!”

“Wouldn’t you rather let me go?” Deadpool barked back. “So you can watch me fail, and then put me down like a rabid dog?! Drag me to the Negative Zone?!” 

“Don’t think you’d even get that much consideration –”

“ENOUGH!” Dr. Wakka. “I think we can all agree the current arrangement is not beneficial to anyone’s mental health. Mr. Wilson wants to prove himself on his own, and I believe that his recovery can best be served by allowing him to try.”

[I will eat you out for hours. Old bush is fine, like gorgonzola.]

[[You so, so nasty.]]

Stark took a couple steps closer, so that he could stick his pointer in Deadpool’s face. “I do have to confer with a couple people, but you’ll be outta here by noon. IF you talk to Spiderman, and he’s on board. Everyone knows my opinion of you two together, but I’m not about to help you dick him over.”

Deadpool wanted to argue, but he’d already agreed to Dr. Wakka’s demand that he talk to Peter before he left. “Of course I was gonna talk to him,” he lied boldly. “It’s not like I wanted to spare myself the humiliation of how quickly he’ll agree. We both see the light at the end of this mirror house.”

[[Oh joy.]]

“You have that talk,” Stark ordered, face softening somewhat, then he backed away a couple steps before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

"And I want my katanas back!" Deadpool yelled after him, before turning uncertainly to Dr. Wakka. 

“Don’t look at me. You’ve wasted quite enough of my time, and I have patients waiting. If you want to see me in the future, I expect you to make an appointment. Show some basic respect.” 

“Sure thing, Doc Wock,” Deadpool threw over his shoulder as he darted out the door, making sure to grab his spear and knife from a startled secretary. He sprinted down the hallway, taking a break from adulting to luxuriate in the sensation of flying. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted off him; like he could breathe a little easier. 

[Feeling a million times better, thank fuck. This emotional garbage has been entirely self-inflicted, as always. Spidey’s not the only hot ass out there.]

[[While Whitey’s response is as base and animalistic as ever, I agree that this was the right decision. Even if we spend the rest of eternity alone, this is better for everyone.]]

In the elevator Deadpool’s mood flagged slightly as his eyes flicked over the floor numbers. “Hey, Alfred.”

It only took JARVIS a beat longer than usual to respond, “Are you attempting to address me?”

“Sorry, I know the Crazy is hard to distinguish from the asshole. Can you tell Peter to join me on the roof?”

“Shall I rephrase the request to your benefit?”

“You’re a good friend, Jarvis. I’m gonna miss you.”

[[Sad but true.]]

A few minutes later, Deadpool was again on the roof of Stark Tower. He followed the same impulse that always brought him to the vacant helipad, though he did not take up his usual position on the edge. Instead he sat cross-legged right on the center of the big H, facing the distant door with all the pose of a yogi, and it felt so right that he had to seriously consider the possibility that his subconscious was a genius. 

[[It would explain the random flashes of brilliance that salt our otherwise disturbed and disordered existence.]]

[What Yellow said.]

Peter emerged from the Tower shortly, sweaty and slim in work out shorts, and Deadpool studied his cautious, burdened approach. Soon he too would be free from this unnecessary weight. 

“Hey,” Peter threw out casually, looking and sounding so young. Twenty-one now (and what a birthday that had been!), but still such a kid. Awfully young to have been as corrupted as thoroughly as Deadpool had corrupted him. 

“Hey.” Apparently Hell had indeed frozen over, as both men briefly basked in their burning speechlessness. An awkward number of seconds had passed before Deadpool’s Crazy forced him to blurt, “What can I say that fucking Eminem hasn’t already said better?!”

[♪♬ Try an’ touch me, so I can scream at you not to touch me; run out the room and I'll follow you like a lost puppy. Baby, without you, I'm nothing, I'm so lost, hug me; then tell me how ugly I am, but that you'll always love me. ♪♬]

The lyrics rocked Deadpool hard, and he shook his head so vigorously that his weight tilted and he had to bring his arms out to catch his fall backwards. It took a moment to reorient himself where he sat on the helipad, before he was finally able to look up at Peter’s face. As difficult as Deadpool found it to connect and understand others, it was easy now for him to read the coexisting concern and disappointment in the other man’s expression. He pushed past his own irrelevant discomfort, straight to the point. “I’m leaving. With permission from the shrinks and wardens.”

Peter’s head tilted down and away, expression tightening but otherwise showing little reaction. After a couple seconds, he only sounded a little strained when he admitted, “I’m sorry. . . I really wanted us to be able to hold onto each other, to hold each other up. But we just keep grabbing each other’s bruises instead.”

A part of Pool had wanted Peter to object, to fight for them, however irrationally, and Peter’s easy acceptance caused a hurt to swell in Pool’s gut. He felt the instinctive phase into SIMS mode –

[[FUCK NO, CUNT! We’re doing this in the goddamn FLESH.]] 

Deadpool jerked a little with the transition back, and then flushed with humiliation. Did he really need to display all of his tells and symptoms in the course of this conversation?

“So did I, baby boy,” Pool swallowed around his words. Then he leaned back and brought his arms up to dramatically air guitar the classic power ballad, “♪♬ I’m all outta love, I’m so lost without you. I know you were right, believing for so long. I’m all outta love. . . ♪♬”

When Pool looked shyly up from his pretend pickwork, Peter’s his expression showed more of his own pain and he swiped roughly at his eyes. 

“Ha!” Peter barked hoarsely, struggling to smile. “Yeah well, thanks for the Hollywood soundtrack. Air Supply seems appropriate to the credits.”

[You’re welcome, Spidey. <3]

Pool stared at Peter’s wide, open eyes, and knew he’d never have a better chance at happiness with anyone else. Peter was perfect for him, even in his imperfections, and Pool hated himself for not being able to make it work. He forced himself to pull back, shrugging apologetically with floppy arms, cuz there was no excuse for being himself. He bowed his head in penitence as he waited for any further judgment. 

Finally, Peter sighed and held out a helping hand. “What’re you gonna do with yourself?”

“Pisssh,” Pool shushed, taking Peter’s hand and hauling himself to his feet in a way only possible because of the slighter man’s superior strength. “Gotta lay low and be a good boy, don’ I? Stark and Rogers are gonna be way up my ass. And not in the good way. . . What about you?”

Peter shrugged, looking away and out at the skyline. “I think I’m gonna stay here until I get my head sorted. I start back at school next week, and Stark’s hooking me up with an internship. Who knows? Maybe I can do some good with the Avengers.”

“I’m sure you will, baby boy,” Pool choked out through a painfully clenched throat. This close to Peter’s perfect eyes and lips and smell, Deadpool could easily picture this idyllic future, and the idea sent jealousy stabbing furiously through him. His squishy bits throbbed in unison, letting him know that the bubble inside him wasn’t gonna last too much longer. 

He broke eye contact and moved towards the door, but Peter followed close, at an easy speed and distance that belayed their stiff estrangement. Pool sped up, but the faster man was on his heels, creating a sensation of being chased. When the mercenary broke into a sprint for the door, instinct flaring, Peter grabbed his wrist and yanked him around with enhanced strength. Peter plastered himself against him, arms wrapped around his larger body and a hand roughly forcing his mask up, but just enough to press their lips together. The kiss was both firm and lingering, and expressed every nuance of their heartbreak. Peter broke away after a moment, closing his eyes as he rested his forehead against Pool’s. “You don’t have to run, Wade. You don’t have to disappear from my life.” 

[[Yes we do.]]

Deadpool’s feelings spiked towards some unsustainable summit of agony, and it took a great deal of effort to take a steady breath and rasp, “Weepy farewells are for pussies.”

“This isn’t good-bye. . . I’ve seen the Last Unicorn too. “There are no happy endings because nothing ends.”” Peter planted a final quick peck on Pool’s lips, then leaned back slightly, carefully pulling the mask back down before letting go entirely. “I still love you.”

The stab of hope brought a wave of cool relief, only to be followed by an ebb of icy dread. Wade had won the break he was demanding, but it wouldn’t be a clean one. Of course not. His lips opened and shut twice before he could give voice to the eviscerating words, the words he’d buried deep when everything between them had gone so very wrong and awful. 

“I think I’ll always love you, for however long that always is for me,” Pool croaked hoarsely, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He was rewarded by the open, adoring look on Peter’s face, as though he knew how hard it had been for Deadpool to say those words. He certainly hadn’t managed to voice them since they’d reunited. 

“Thank you,” Peter whispered gratefully, but it only made Wade’s face scrunch up further as the first tears were soaked up by the leather of his mask. 

[[Take a good look. This is the memory that we’re gonna torture ourself with for eternity.]]

Pool cleared his throat loudly, and took a couple more steps back, then tried again with more bravado, “So, do you wanna watch me leave or do you wanna do the leaving? I do so enjoy watching you go.”

Peter clearly struggled, but still managed to offer up a faint smile. “No. I wanna watch you go. You deserve to be the one leaving. This time you’re the one breaking up with me.”

[[Whatever any of that means.]]

[Enough of this pussyfest. I’mma put on the Hulk’s sad walking away song if you don’t make a manly exit right now.]

Not wanting to go any further down the road of snot and tears, Deadpool straightened to military attention, gave a very formal salute, then turned tightly and marched away. No sad Hulk here.

[♪♬ Must’ve been love, but it’s over now. Must’ve been good but I lost it somehow. . . ♪♬]

“Veto! But you were right before. Love stinks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are no happy endings, cuz nothing ends." This is not Good Bye, just Til Later. The next installment will pick up a few months down the road, when we watch the boys get back together again!
> 
> THANKS FOR READING AND PLEASE REVIEW! (What did you think of Dr. Wakka? I didn't want to write any therapy scenes at all, but eventually realized that the story was lacking without that aspect. It's weird cuz I'm a former social worker, and am quite familiar with therapy in real life. Which has very little to do with fictional therapy. Thoughts?)


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